


i've got a touch aversion and a stray cat that says you should shut your mouth

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Body Horror, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fruits Basket au, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mentions of Depression/Anxiety, Minor Character Death, Nudity, ResBang 2017, maka albarn is not a furry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 23:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 63,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: After the death of her mother, Maka wants nothing more than to make it through high school in one piece, and if she has to do it while living in a tent in the middle of the woods, so be it. But with a heart as big as hers, it's hard to ignore trouble for long, and she soon finds herself caught between two cursed boys, submerged in family drama, and subjected to an absurd amount of nudity. Fruits Basket AU.





	1. ain't it fun

**Author's Note:**

> definitely check out nsart and sojustifiable on tumblr for their art! they've both done such great things this resbang and spoiled me and i only hope that this fic doesn't disappoint!
> 
> as always, the biggest thanks to my betas - sandmancircus, skaventuretime, sillytwinstars and peregr1ne - for lending me their eyeballs and just making this more readable in general.

The first thing she's immediately aware of is her mother's ring.

The diamond presses into Maka's cheek, and through the spray of daylight, she squints through the sleepies in her eyes. It must be about six in the morning, she thinks, caught somewhere in sleep limbo, bones shifting into place as she shoves herself up to sit. It's not the best sleep she's gotten - it's not even the best sleep she's gotten this week, all things considered - but the sun is simply too high in the sky for her to even consider rolling over and going back to sleep.

School is going to start soon, after all. And Maka Albarn is nothing if not her mother's daughter - perfectly punctual, a model student, uproariously determined - and no amount of bad sleep will keep her from getting to class on time. Despite the crick in her neck, despite the seductive lull of rest that licks at the coattails of her conscious, she rubs her eyes and squints.

Besides, sleeping in a tent in the daytime isn't exactly easy. Polyester can't dull the sun the same way home can. No, there's no hiding from it, no matter how hard she tries.

.

Tuesdays are always the worst.

Mondays are terrible, of course; the beginning of the school week is always bound to be difficult, but Tuesday is really where the exhaustion begins to hit. There's still so much time left until Friday, and Maka always works Saturdays, and - it's just a long time until Sunday, she thinks groggily, dragging a comb through her hair. One of the chipped teeth of the comb catches a knot and she cringes, grasping at the roots of her hair, tugging gently, gently, until she's free.

It's Tuesday, and tying up her hair while walking isn't as easy as she'd thought it might be. Twintails aren't even really a precise hairstyle; two elastics, no bobby pins, no fuss. It keeps her hair out of her way and keeps men at bay, too. There's something about two pigtails, high atop her head, that seem to turn boys her age off. Something infantilizing about a seventeen year old girl donning such a childish style - but it works for her, anyway, and Mama always used to style her hair this way, so Maka can't see the harm in it. It works. No-nonsense.

And on the off chance a boy does like her hairstyle, well, then it's easier for her to pick off the creeps. Sickos, she barely looks fourteen.

Maybe she should've brought a mirror with her. Her hair could be crooked, for all she knows. One could be looser than the other. She could have a cowlick.

_Tuesdays,_ she thinks sleepily.

"... Miss?"

Surprised, Maka blinks her way back into this dimension. Oh, well. She's a space cadet, apparently. Tuesday has her all out of sorts and she can't even watch where she's going, doesn't register that she might not be alone on this walk to school. That is a foot under hers, isn't it? And that's a boy, staring at her in surprise, brows raised, lips pressed together tightly.

Pretty lips. Pale lips.

Ah.  _Ah!_

"Iiii-! Oh, my god!" She nearly trips over herself trying to get away from him; she knows those lips! Well, no, she doesn't know those lips, not intimately - she doesn't think she really has any right to say she knows any lips, not when she's never been kissed, um - but she'd have to be deaf not to hear the way the girls in her class swoon and sigh over those lips.

Sure enough, Kurtis Ignatius Demitri (or Kid, as he prefers) stares back at her, pretty lips parted, now. It's almost unnerving, looking at him; he's got the type of face that belongs on dolls, she thinks. Perfect, unblemished skin; high cheekbones; long, dark lashes. He's one of those disturbingly beautiful people and Maka sort of feels mousy, standing there with haphazard pigtails, probably some leftover drool dried on her cheek. Her pleated skirt is wrinkled and lopsided, she has one knee high sock slipping precariously low, and his damn collar is  _perfectly pressed_.

"I'm so sorry," she blurts, stumbling back. God, she must be tired; she's sitting here gawking at him instead of groveling, ugh. Maka isn't stupid enough to live alone in a tent and not have the means to defend herself should forest perverts or bears dare cross her - she wears heavy steel-toed boots, and Kid's toes might as well be dust now. "Are you okay?"

He blinks, peculiarly unconcerned with her. Or. Unconcerned with her heavy, clumsy feet, apparently - he's staring at her with intense concentration, and Maka feels a little like she's under a microscope. She scrubs at her cheek, just in case there actually is drool still there.

"Um?"

He squints. Maka hopes for a hot minute that he needs glasses or something, just so she won't feel as frumpy compared to him and his sparkling perfection. What sixteen year old has such splendid eyebrows?

"... Your hair."

Her hair. Self consciously, Maka grabs at her pigtails and tugs like they're her handlebars and she's a clumsy child, just now learning to ride a bike. "I didn't really have time to do my hair this morning, I know-"

"May I?"

"Um," she says again, but he's already moving closer, almost robotically. Maka nods, and then he's got his hands in her hair, tugging, adjusting, shifting. Belatedly, she realizes he's evening her out.

What an odd thing to prioritize. She just crushed his toes beneath her boot. Probably scuffed those expensive-looking loafers of his. Is it possible to bruise leather? She's probably bruised his leather and he's more interested in her two-minute mirrorless hairstyle.

Definitely odd.

Well, he's always been a bit off-kilter, she thinks, staring at the center of his forehead. He's sort of got a reputation about him. He's a bit like social royalty around school, despite the fact that Maka's not sure she's ever really seen him talk to anyone. He just sits there, front row of the class, shoulders looking slender and pristine beneath the muted gray of his shirt. Like some sort of king or something. He certainly has the posture to be king, that's for sure; Maka's stare slips down the line of his nose to his neck, then to those aforementioned shoulders.

It must be exhausting, standing so straight all of the time. Sitting so tall, even. He's not even a particularly tall guy, she notes; he's not much taller than she is, and she stands at a mere 5'2''.

"Hm," he says, and she jumps again, startled and guilty. Who is she, and why is her head in the clouds? Damn Tuesdays. "Better. You are presentable now."

Maka doesn't know whether to thank him or apologize again. Well, she's staring at their feet now, so it's as good a time as any. "Sorry."

Kid takes a step back and clears his throat. "Pardon?"

"For stepping on your feet?" And possibly crushing his toes? Ruining his shoes? Being an uncharacteristic space cadet? "I wasn't paying attention, and my boots are kind of, um, heavy duty, so-"

"Yes, well," he nods, slowly, and Maka realizes somewhere between inspecting his loafers for damage and segueing into begging for forgiveness she's gone back to looking him in the eye. "It is early, and I suppose most people aren't at their most alert at six thirty AM, so."

So. Maka burns and clenches her bookbag. "I usually am."

He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Polite and practiced. "Everyone has an off morning."

She doesn't. There is too much riding on her shoulders for her to afford an off morning, thank you very much. Maka takes a deep breath and says, "Still. Sorry. And thank you for fixing my hair?"

"It was my pleasure."

Class royalty takes pleasure in fixing her hair. Maka absolutely does not mention that she'd rinsed her hair in streamwater a night ago with a bar of dollar-store soap and instead decides to preserve whatever is left of her threadbare dignity. If the only bone he has to pick with her hair is its lopsided nature, well, she shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was his pleasure, and as weird as it is, Maka can't find anything disingenuous in the way he smiles, even if it's a bit stiffly. A good girl would say thank you again.

And she is a good girl, after all. Her mother's daughter. Maka lives to please. "Thank you."

Kid nods and, like the true gentleman he is, gestures before them with a flourish of his hand. "Shall we?" he asks, and oh, it sort of does make sense that they'd just walk to school together now, huh. They are both headed to the same place. It would be weird if she didn't fall into step with him.

"Oh!" Maka gasps. "Yes! Yes, sorry. Sure. Thank you again. You're positive I didn't hurt you?"

He nods his head. "Positive. Please don't think anything of it."

"I mean, because I'm kind of wearing heavy-duty boots-"

"-Yes, I am aware-"

"-And they hurt! They're supposed to hurt, anyway. I kind of bought them with the intention of them being intimidating and painful."

He does crack a smile at that, and it has at least twenty percent more life than the last poised quirk of his lips had. "Self defense?"

Well, he's not at the top of their class for nothing, she supposes. He can pick up on her context clues like a true bookworm, and Maka can respect that. "A girl can never be too sure," she says, jogging a bit to match his pace. He might be more on the petite side, but he's certainly quick with his strides, and Maka should get her head out of the clouds before she ends up trampling all over his toes again and  _actually_  hurting him this time. "Better safe than sorry, right?"

"Absolutely," he says, nodding. Kid doesn't once look at her, but more-so keeps his eyes on the path in front of him. Oddly enough, in the sunlight he really does sort of glow.

Though she's not sure if it's because of his rumored princely aura, or if his skin has never truly seen the light of day and he's the approximate shade of mayonnaise. Really, anyone that pale is blinding in the light. Either he slathers himself in the highest possible SPF, or he spends way too much money on Hot Topic makeup. Since she can't make out the point on his chin where the goth-white foundation ends and his actual skin tone begins, all signs point to vitamin-d deficiency.

So many girls in her class would trip over themselves for a chance to walk to school with him, and all Maka can think about is whether or not he buys aloe vera in bulk. She's not really sure which is funnier; that legions of fangirls are gaga over this pasty pretty boy, or that she herself has spent so much time analyzing it.

Maybe she's pathetic, too. And, admittedly, also kind of pasty.

Who is she kidding? They're both mayonnaise.

.

The walk to school is unusually eventful. Normally, Maka power walks to class by herself, cashes in on daily free breakfast, and spends her twenty minutes chewing on a halfway-stale bagel while rereading Harry Potter's yearly near-death experience before Liz and Patty finally make their way in. This morning, though, she has the strange pleasure of walking to class with Kid, which is… nice? She thinks it's nice?

It's certainly not  _unpleasant._  Maybe a bit awkward sometimes, because he is sort of a stranger, and he's not the best at holding a conversation always, but he's nice enough. Nicer than she'd expected, really; he might be something like royalty around the school, but he's got a reputation of being sort of an ice prince. He talks to no one, minds his own business, takes his sweet time taking his notes and turns down boys and/or girls who confess to him. Rinse and repeat. It's a daily cycle, it seems, and Maka only notices such odd behavior because she has the nosiest friends in the world.

Liz drops down into the seat beside her and blankets her head in her arms. "Ugh."

Even if it had taken an extra fifteen minutes to get to class, Maka still sits smugly beside her. They are none the wiser to her unusual morning stroll with the local pretty boy. "Late night?" Maka asks, chewing on her bagel.

"Puh." Liz cracks her neck and rests her cheek against her forearm instead, so that she can stare at Maka. "Too much to do, too much to see."

Giggling, Patty plops down beside Maka, too. "Sissy was up too late watching Netflix. Don't let her fool you!"

"Patty!"

"She's not that cool," Patty insists, waving a hand. She leans in, then, short blonde hair brushing against her chin. It's wild today, as it is everyday, and she must not've run a comb through it this morning before dragging her big sister out of bed. "Good morning, Maka!"

It's not polite to talk with her mouth full, and she really is still trying to make time to shovel in her breakfast before first period starts, so she smiles as brightly as she can for 7 AM and chomps away. It's enough for the youngest Thompson sister, and she bumps shoulders with her before leaning over to dig through her backpack for her pencil case.

"Work was exhausting, okay," Liz says, pouting. "When I got back I didn't feel like going out anymore, so I just had a night-in. I'm still cool."

Maka swallows. "Okay."

"You are judging me. I can see it in your eyes."

She is doing no such thing. Maka spent her night post-work sleeping in a tent in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. She is in no place to judge, actually, and wisely keeps her nose out of it. "I am literally not even looking at you, Liz," she says, very pointedly flipping a page in her book. "Harry has my attention."

"Nerd," she scoffs.

"He's good to me. Respectable. A strong sense of justice."

"Yeah." Liz rolls her eyes. "What a catch.  _Harry Potter_  is the type of guy you bring home to your parents,  _sure,_ Maka-"

There's a pinch, hot and tight in her chest, and Maka swallows again, though it's zero parts breakfast and all parts  _heat_. It sinks down, then, into her gut, where it doesn't explode so much as it dissolves, thick and murky. Her thumb finds the band of her mother's ring, and Maka spins it, then, absently. It's been months, she thinks, the cool metal of the ring smooth beneath the pad of her thumb. Months, and this shouldn't still sting - she is stronger than this, tougher. Someone Mama can be proud of.

So she does not cry about it. Does not make a scene or wipe her eyes or anything like that; what good will tears serve her, anyway? It'll only make Liz feel guilty, will only make Patty fret and smother her with hugs and cheek smooches, and Maka- Maka doesn't need that, not now. What kind of friend would she be, if she let Liz beat herself up over such a tiny fluke? It's whatever. Maka is practically an adult. Seventeen going on responsible.

She shakes her head and pinches the tip of the page between her fingers. Smooth beneath her fingers. Hm. "I think so," she says, smoothly. Beside her, Liz seems to reinflate, though her expression evolves from regret to suspicion.

Squinting, she says, "... He's a nerd."

"No." Maka laughs. "That's  _Hermione,_  remember? She's the bookworm. Harry just has glasses and you are stereotyping him."

"I lived through shitty 2000's teen movies, Maka. I was twelve once." Liz runs her fingers through her long, long hair and rolls her eyes, seemingly placated with the change of topic. Good; Maka breathes a little easier, slinks back in her chair a bit more comfortably as Liz says, very assured, "Nerds wear glasses."

Untrue. Maka probably qualifies as a nerd and she doesn't wear glasses. Perfect 20/20 vision, thank you very much. "I think you are forcing a label on him that he might not identify with."

" _I_ think you're too invested in Harry's nerdy ways." False. "Those glasses of his probably get your own nerdy self all hot and bothered. Keeps you warm at night." She literally could not be more wrong. "Fess up, Albarn. We all know the truth."

There's no truth to  _fess up_. Her heart is still lodged in her throat, and it's difficult to breathe, with the way it's pounding, still, and- and she's being accused of what, exactly? Harry Potter's glasses getting her all riled up? It's laughable, and Liz might be the closest thing she's had to a best friend, but sometimes it still blindsides Maka how little she seems to understand.

So Maka shakes her head. "You need more sleep."

Patty giggles and nudges Maka's shoulder. "Bingo!"

"No, I-"

"Need your beauty sleep?"

"Patty!"

It's easy to fall back into routine. It's safe, to carefully tuck her bookmark into place and slip  _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_  back into her bag. Safe, in such a way that it's  _easy_  to ignore the way her heart slowly slips back down, locks itself into place in her chest, thumping faithfully - easy to ignore the tight pinch in her stomach that even words and literature can't seem to will away. But it's daylight, now, well into the morning and much too late for her to bask in that particular brand of frustration. School's about to start and if there's one thing she can truly lose herself in, it's learning.

Mama'd instilled a thirst for knowledge in her, after all. Mama always knew best. A smart girl is a practical girl, and practicality seems to be the only thing to loosen that claw-like grip on her heart.

She's fine. She's  _fine._  Breathe in, breathe out. There. Better. A practical girl is a  _strong_  girl.

.

"Don't look now, but I think Kid wants your number."

Maka promptly chokes on her lunchroom pizza. "Excuse me?"

Never one for subtlety, Liz sits taller to stare pointedly over Maka's head. She's not even a little bit secretive about it, openly staring right at the poor guy. When Maka at least tries to be a bit more tactful with her peeking, Kid adjusts his shirt collar and goes back to broodily twirling his spaghetti around his fork.

"... He's so brave, eating tomato sauce while wearing a white shirt."

"Maka!"

"What? He is!"

She wouldn't dare try such a feat; not without a real washing machine, anyway. All of Maka's clothes are cleaned a la river water and elbow grease (and a little powdered detergent, sure), and- well, she's brave but not suicidal when it comes to her collared shirts. It's better be to a little wrinkled, she thinks, than splotched with red. Makes her look a little bit less like a homicidal maniac and more like a busy high school student.

Liz flicks her forehead. Very lovingly, of course. "Focus. You're being checked out and you are still more interested in his bleaching methods."

Maka blushes at the thought. "He is not checking me out."

"He keeps staring at you. It's very Edward Cullen," Liz says, then leans back to continue chomping on her chicken burger. "It's like he has his own wind machine to dramatically blow his hair in the breeze."

Maka spares a glance behind her. "... Well, he's sitting by the only boxed fan in the school, so."

Liz snorts. "It's strategic." Munch, munch. From her side, Patty sneakily steals a few of her sister's cold fries. "He wants to look mysterious and dark. Such a wannabe bad boy. He's trying to be sexy."

If he is, the effect is lost on her. Maka's not sure she's ever known what  _sexy_  is - but she's pretty sure it's not some introverted boy, sitting by himself in the lunchroom, boxed fan blowing his hair into his face as he attempts to eat some pasta without staining his nice shirt. And if it is, well, Maka's pretty sure she'll never understand sex appeal. It's more sad, than anything else.

Lonely. Very lonely. And it makes her heart ache.

"... Maybe he's just overheated," she says sensibly. "He's still in that sweater vest? And it's like,  _September,_  it's not even well into fall yet-"

Laughing, Liz shakes her head. "I'm not sure I've ever seen teen royalty himself sweat. I'm not sure he's capable. Look!" she says, pointing a pinky finger in his direction, never once releasing her burger.

It feels rude to look again, but Liz keeps wiggling her finger, and she just won't stop until Maka finally bites the bullet and does it. So, against her better judgement, she checks over her shoulder. Sure enough, he's peeking her way, too, but it's more curious than anything else. He doesn't seem flustered, and doesn't seem overheated - he's not drenched in sweat, anyway, and his hair doesn't look greasy - but Maka's not sure she's ever seen him truly out of sorts. He doesn't look stuffy, or sticky, or like he's suffering for wearing a collared shirt and sweater vest in 65 degree weather… he's sort of, like, glistening?

Maka squints. "He's sweating, for sure."

"He's sparkling. It's a fresh layer of  _sparkle._ "

Patty cackles and steals Maka's discarded pepperoni. "Sissy and her conspiracy theories. You watch too much late night TV!"

Kid's an odd guy, but he's probably not an extraterrestrial. Maka chances a wave and he blinks, in what she thinks must be surprise. Then he waves back too, tiny and shy before looking deeply into his plate of spaghetti again. "He's definitely overheating. He's one of the lucky ones who doesn't sweat like a pig, but he's definitely perspiring."

"That's a funny word. I like that word."

"What, perspire?"

Patty smothers a smile. "No. Pig. Duh."

Liz finally drops her chicken burger and plants her hands on the table, determined. "Is nobody listening to me? He is staring at you like, constantly. He wants something. And I'm pretty sure it's your blood, Albarn."

Unlikely. She's A-Positive. Super common, generic blood. The stale potato chips of the vampire world, probably. Which, wait. "You think he's a vampire?"

Patty really wasn't kidding. Liz and her conspiracy theories, man. She tosses her hair over her shoulder very dramatically and says, seriously, "He is absolutely the spitting image of those 2000's young adult romance novel covers. Look at him! He is the hot teen vampire of pre-teen wet dreams. And he wants you, Maka. I am not kidding. Why else would he keep looking your way? The fan is blowing in your direction."

"... Wouldn't the fan need to be blowing his way for that to make sense?" To like, what, blow her scent his way? Make him uncomfortable with her scrumptious blood-smell? Maka tries not to bark out laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. "I don't think it works that way, Liz."

"He wants your neck. Wants to sink in with his  _fangs._ " She stands up, then, very suddenly. "I bet he has fangs. I'm going to investigate."

She says that, but her knees wobble as she kicks away from the lunch table, and Maka knows it's not because of her heeled boots. Liz Thompson came out of the womb in kickass heels, and those boots were made for walking, dammit. "I really- you don't have to do that," Maka insists, reaching for her wrist. Liz trembles a bit in her grasp, barely noticeably. "Come on, he's not a vampire."

"I'm the intimidating one here, okay. I have a duty to this family."

It softens Maka, just a bit.  _Family_. "Okay, but I'm the one who knows taekwondo."

Liz pries her fingers off of her wrist and then pats her head, very maternally. She's seen her do the same to Patty a thousand times, but it's weird, being on the receiving end for once. "Do you think he knows that? I have height over him. You are 90 pounds soaking wet."

" _He's_  90 pounds soaking wet, too!" Her logic is so flawed. And okay, the dude's a little off kilter, and yeah, he's staring and it's odd, but Maka just spent the morning walking to school with him. He had plenty of opportunities to suck her dry like some sort of capri-sun pouch and he hadn't. Probably definitely not a teen vampire intent on turning her into his undead bride. "You're afraid of supernatural creatures anyway."

She gasps, affronted. "I am not!"

Her legs are literally shaking in her boots. "You are terrified. Remember when Patty and I wanted to go ghost hunting and you made us go home? We didn't even make it in the door!"

Liz's eyes narrow and she lightly bonks Maka on the head. "Fucking with ouija boards is not cool, and you know it."

Her point still stands. Liz is absolutely spooked by creepy crawlies and things that go bump in the night, and vampires definitely fall into the latter category. And while Maka is a little flattered that her friend would go through such turmoil just to protect her, it's also completely unnecessary. He's an odd guy, sure, but sparkle vampire is pushing it.

"He's nice," Maka says, then.

Liz stares suspiciously at her. It's like being under a microscope. "You've never spoken to him."

"You don't know that. Maybe I have."

It keeps her from barrelling over and interrogating him, at least, but now all attention is on her, and it's unnerving. Liz props a hand on her hip and shifts her weight, and at least three boys from the next table over turn their attention to Liz's fantastic ass. "When?"

Honesty is the best policy. And the truth is certainly less exciting than whatever tall tale Liz is concocting right now. Maka stands, leans up on her toes and shoots a glare over Liz's shoulder, just enough to discourage wandering freshman eyes, and then says, "This morning? We ran into each other on our way to school, so we walked together. It was nice, I guess. Less lonely than normal."

This is clearly revolutionary enough to even surprise Patty out of her lunch stealing. She drops Liz's fry in a pool of ketchup. "You walked together?"

"... Yes?"

"I don't think I've ever seen him outside of school," she says, thoughtfully rescuing the fry from the pit of tomato-y hell. "I thought he, like, crawled under his desk when the bell rang and then went to sleep. Like teachers do."

"Well, he was there! He helped fix my hair." She drops down from her toes and touches her pigtails; sure enough, they're still standing tall, high atop her head, and they feel even, but she can't exactly see her reflection in Liz's face. "He's just… shy, maybe? But he's very nice. I stomped all over his foot on accident and he didn't even get upset with me. And he definitely didn't try to  _suck me dry,_  thank you very much!"

Her stare is unreadable. Maka's unsure if it's denial that's written in that wrinkle between her brows, or dubiety, and doesn't quite care to investigate further. "Right."

It's weird, though. She's not checking over her shoulder, but still has a nagging suspicion that he's watching her again. Like some kind of bizarre sixth sense; Liz is right about one thing, and it's that there's something about him that isn't quite completely mundane. He might not glitter in the daylight and lust after her very generic bloodtype, but there's still something different about him. Not necessarily a bad different, or even a dangerous different - just… different. A way she can't quite put into words.

Maybe the under-the-microscope feeling wasn't from Liz after all. Maka drops back down to sit and crushes her juice box in her hand. It's like an itch she can't seem to scratch.

Weird.

.

She meets him again by the school's front steps.

He's sitting very primly on the bottom step, one leg crossed over another, hands propped on his knees. Liz gasps and points an accusatory finger his way, but the guy isn't gleaming in the sunlight so much as he's very, very pale and blinding in the light.

And she's not the only one who feels that way. From the top of the steps, a group of girls flutter and giggle eagerly, practically gawking at the poor guy. Though- okay, judging from the way they're whispering and squealing, they find his fair skinned, prim-and-proper demeanor dreamy or princely or… something like that. It's hard to make out what they're saying in between the giggling and cat calls.

Attraction is weird. Maka shakes her head and doesn't overthink it. There are some things in this life she is just not meant to understand, and alleged teenage hormones are one of them.

"He's waiting for you! And you barely know him. That's creepy," Liz hisses.

"Or gentlemanly," Maka says, stuffing her water bottle into her bag. "Either way, I'm headed to work after school, so it's not like I'll be walking home with him anyway." She does not mention that she can't let him walk her home, not if she wants to keep her, um, sleeping arrangement a secret, anyway. His niceness surely only goes so far. There will surely come a point where this seemingly well-mannered pretty boy will watch her crawl into her tent and lose his composure. She's willing to put money on it.

Liz grabs her shoulder. Her nails dig into her shirt. "What if he follows you there? Or. Oh my god. Waits for you there?"

"I think you think I am way hotter than I actually am. No boy would do that." And definitely not for her, lady practically-rocking-a-training-bra, she of the pathetic stature and skinny legs. "Relax. Taekwondo, remember? I could snap him in half."

Patty snorts and plops her baseball cap on her head. "Nah, Maka. Some dudes are into that. 'Member that guy you brought home last month, Lizzie? Said he wanted you to crush his skull-"

"IRRELEVANT." Wow, is Liz pink. Maka shares a smile with Patty. "Just… watch yourself around him, okay? He gives me the heebie jeebies. Something about that dude is weird."

He's like five foot five and reading Edgar Allen Poe poems while sitting cross-legged on the school steps, but okay, sure. His residual oddness does waft from him, and Maka almost gets where she's coming from, but can't seem to bring herself to be intimidated by a boy who wears golden contacts on a day-to-day basis. It's a little embarrassing. She's not really sure how she feels about that.

But she's going to be late if she doesn't get going, so there's really no time for deliberation on the subject. Watch herself around the potentially creepy pretty boy who lives somewhere near her makeshift campsite. Easier said than done.

"Sure, okay. See you guys later." Maka leans in and gives Liz a one-armed hug, and then does the same to her sister. Patty squeezes her extra tight and lifts her off of her feet for good measure. "Whoa-!"

She giggles and drops her. "Be safe! Text us when you get home so we know you got back alright."

"Okay, mom."

Liz's lips press together. Maka ignores it and swallows down her own discomfort. It's fine, she tells herself. Normalize it. It's  _fine._

.

Work is work. It's never exciting but it's not the worst, Maka supposes. Scooping ice cream isn't physically grueling work, really, but frozen cream is tougher to handle than most people realize, and Maka's arms feel sore and noodly as she locks up, wishes her boss goodnight, and then begins the trek home. If nothing else, the job pays well enough. Working for tips is sometimes degrading, and she can feel her pride withering every time she has to smile and nod at some rude soccer mom demanding she get more extra fudge for the same low, low price of  _nothing_ , but it definitely beats out the minimum wage she's actually being paid per-hour.

And she's ripped. Or. Um. Rapidly becoming more ripped as time goes on. She's on her way to having guns for arms and at least she'll have that going for her. Her scooping arm has gained significant muscle definition in comparison to her non-dominant,  _non-scooping_ arm.

So, at least if Kid does somehow miraculously end up being a vampire intent on using her like a bloodbag, Maka'll have a mean right hook to clobber him with. Self defense is important, like Mama always says.

Said. Erm. She always  _said._

Eleven PM is too late to be feeling sorry for herself. Maka hefts her school bag onto her back and drowsily walks home. She's never been much of a night owl, but if she wants to save up enough money to hopefully get an apartment for herself after graduation, she's going to need the extra cash, and that means subjecting herself to as many after-school shifts as she possibly can before June. Ideally, she'll be going to college by then, and will have gathered enough scholarships for it to be feasible for her to attend, but then there's also food to worry about, among other living expenses, and- well, a girl can never be too prepared. Who knows what could happen in a year's time.

She's never been a night owl, but this is a necessity now, and routine is routine, she supposes. It will only make her stronger in the long run, both fiscally and  _physically,_ apparently. Maka keeps herself mostly awake and alert by feeling up her own bicep, a bit giddy at the thought of having  _actual_ muscles. Liz isn't entirely made up of conspiracy theories - she's right, Maka isn't really that intimidating, but if she had  _guns,_ well. That's a different story.

Eventually, the sidewalk ends and the dirt path begins. It's creepier, walking this route, so Maka pulls out her phone and turns on the flashlight. At least if any wild animals (or creepers) jump out at her, she'll see them coming and have half of a fighting chance. She probably wouldn't punch a bear in the nose, but another person wandering in the woods at nearly midnight? Maybe. She can't have people wandering around her campsite this late at night. It's just not safe.

Branches and pinecones crunch under her boots. Maka ducks under a branch, steps over a particularly mossy rock and then, well. There it is. Her home.

A tent, shoddily propped up in a clearing. There's just enough break of canopy for daylight to stream in, working as the best natural wakeup call she can finagle. The ground is level enough, she supposes, for a decent night sleep. She has a pillow in there and a blanket. The tent has a screen. It's not… it's not the worst set up.

It's certainly not the best set up, either, but it's hers, and that's enough. And it's better than being homeless, which, okay, maybe she kind of is? She doesn't own the land she's sleeping on. She literally just stumbled around until she found a flat surface to sleep and set up camp indefinitely, but it's  _something,_  okay. A place to sleep is a place to sleep. A place to keep her things and take off her shoes and relax.

Besides. She's brave. Things that go bump in the night don't scare her. Vampires aren't real. Ghosts are debatable. Bears are real and if a bear stumbles onto her campsite, she might die, but she will deal with that obstacle should it present itself. For the time being, she's fine.

She's too tired to worry about it anyway. Maka falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. Goodbye, Tuesday.


	2. whoa oh! (me vs everyone)

uesday might be objectively the worst day of the week, but there's something  _extra_ about Wednesday, too.

Maybe it's the desperation of the middle of the week - it is Hump Day, after all, and for Maka, who has a laughable disinterest in anything hump-like, it just feels like a bland day.  _Extra_  bland. So much so that waking up on this particular Wednesday proves to be more difficult a task than the dreaded Tuesday of yester, and that's quite a feat.

Groggily, Maka scrubs at her eyes and stares distantly at the roof of her tent. It's almost too easy to get lost in the shifting of the shadows cast by overhead leaves and lull herself back into a comatose state of almost-sleep. It's unlike her to be tempted by the seductive pull of sleep, but her lids are heavy and her head is full of that fuzzy whiteness that comes with being stuck in nap limbo, and it's only when she pauses in her contemplation that she realize there's something buzzing under her back.

Hm. Funny. She doesn't own any sort of back massager. And even if she did at one point, she wouldn't have brought it with her in the move. Only the necessities had made it in the time Maka went from being an only child with a single mom in an apartment to Maka Albarn, orphaned tent girl.

There's a hard edge pressing in between her shoulderblades and it's probably one of the least comfortable things she's ever experienced in her sleep limbo. Disgruntled, she tries reaching behind her to try and yank whatever the offending object is out and shove it away.

Maka grips her phone in her hand and stares at it suspiciously. Squints, and wonders how it'd gotten lodged beneath her sleepshirt, lost somewhere in the oversized fabric. Wonders, then, how her battery had drained down to the halfway point, when she'd made sure to sneakily charge it at work last night.

Then she looks at the time and everything is made more clear.

As Nicki would say, Maka promptly pounds the alarm.

… And then she flies out of bed in a frenzy. Shoot! There's no time for her to sit and wait just five more minutes for the last tendrils of sleep to release her - there are classes to go to, school to be had, best friends to lovingly scold into paying attention. Plus, if she doesn't hurry, she'll miss breakfast, and free food is an amenity she cannot afford to miss out on. When all of her free time goes into attending high school and her after-hours part time job, there's no real time for grocery shopping. And even if there were, where is she supposed to keep perishables? A girl cannot sustain herself on canned fruit and saltines alone. It's just not reasonable. Not healthy.

She supposes spending every night on the cold hard ground isn't healthy either, but it's not like she has much of a choice. This is her life now. She doesn't pay rent, doesn't worry about skeevy landlords, or making sure to remember her keys before she heads out for the day. Nope. She just has a tent.

And it's better, she thinks, even as she's hurriedly dragging a chipped comb through her hair and haphazardly throwing it up in her signature twintails. Better than the alternative, anyway. She'd rather rough it out on her own than seek out a father who'd never wanted to be in her life and beg for a roof over her head. She has pride, okay? Enough pride to not ask someone for help who'd never cared enough to be there anyway. Mama had hated him, and that was enough of a reason for her.

It's too heavy a subject for her to consider this early in the morning. Too heavy to consider while she's attempting to unzip her tent and  _get the hell to school_  without missing the last five minutes of breakfast. She's in such a frenzy that she nearly zips her hair up in the door flap as an afterthought, and as such is absolutely blindsided by a set of disturbingly hard abs as she face-plants into an eight pack.

And like any sensible girl, Maka screams and kicks the shredded bear in his fuzzy nuts.

.

Okay, so it's not a bear.

In her defense, she lives alone in the woods. It's more reasonable to assume an animal had stumbled upon her campsite and not some sort of giant of a man in a shoddy labcoat and glasses.

Still. That steel-toed boot nailed him right in the crotch. She's defensive but not cruel, and has the grace to scream as  _he's_ the one who goes down, clutching his groin.

Really, the universe needs to learn to stop throwing people at her while she's trying to get ready for school and rushing out the door; her head's really not always in the clouds! Just. Apparently she's a little less nearsighted in moments of stress, and a little more kick-happy. It doesn't negate the fact that his, uh, bits are probably quite sore, but there's not much more she can do than grovel and apologize.

"Oh my god," she gasps, dropping to her knees, hands cupped over her mouth. "I am so sorry, I don't know- what- who're you?! Why?!"

Up close, she realizes his glasses are cracked. Even closer, she realizes that this man is a damn behemoth, and perhaps she has made a grave mistake by nailing him in the nuts. Kid might've been a cheap Edward Cullen knockoff, but this guy- huge, vaguely doctorish,  _hanging outside her tent while she sleeps_  - is something straight out of a cheap b-horror movie.

This mystery monster grits out a smile and says, very thickly, "... Smart girl, wearing boots…."

"Oh," Maka says, "thank you."

"It's not safe for children to sleep alone in the woods." She is not a child, but okay, whatever. "... I suppose this is my fault, for not announcing my presence."

If he wants to shift the blame, Maka won't question him. She offers a hand out to him, despite the vague fear that he might try to lob it off and perform experiments on it in his forest-lab-retreat, because manners are important and Mama always said she should respect her elders. And he's got white-ish hair, so he's probably her elder, right? Her disturbingly buff elder?

He accepts her hand, and she manages to yank him up to his knees before she's standing at her full height and she realizes she is quite literally in over her head. Everything she'd previously known as tall is instantly crushed beneath the monstrous height of this man; he has to be like, what, six foot seven or something? It's almost a comical amount of extra height, and she would laugh, if she wasn't still lowkey concerned that Frankenstein's monster had somehow stumbled upon her humble abode.

This man towers over her. It taps into the very primal, instinctively defensive part of her personality, the one instilled at a very young age that distrusts men, especially large ones. It's not fear, per se, because Maka fucking Albarn is not afraid of any man, no sir, but she's still aware of his size compared to hers. He smiles at her in what she thinks must be a peace offering, but with crooked, cracked glasses, and a strange stitched-up scar cradling the skin around his eye, it's more creepy than anything else. Maka grinds the dirt beneath her foot, light on her toes, ready for anything.

"... So, um." Where to even begin? "... Who."

So eloquent, for a girl who routinely studies SAT vocabulary words. It doesn't seem to deter him, though, and through that wannabe welcoming smile, he says, "The owner of this property."

In half a beat, Maka glances back at her tent. Then looks back to him and the way he's smiling at her. Then she glances down at the very shoes that had nailed him in the balls, and realizes, very solemnly, that she has made many mistakes in this life, and perhaps all of them have lead up to this moment.

Well, life, it's been real. If she's murdered right here, right now, at least she'll be able to see her Mama again.

"...  _Oh_."

His smile never wavers. Never mind. It's definitely meant to be creepy, there's no way to mask that; his glasses glint in the morning sun and Maka remembers every horror movie Mama had ever allowed her to see in distinct detail. Mostly, she remembers the ill fates of all the characters, and how the cookie-cutter blonde girls had evaded death purely on luck and hot factor alone. And, well, Maka  _is_ blonde, but it's more of the dirty dishwater shade variety, and she isn't white, so she hasn't got that going for her either. Only white girls live through horror flicks. Her chance of survival are slim at best.

She should run. She should probably run.

Maka grabs her bag off of the ground, turns and runs. If she's going to die, she's not going to do it without a good fight, at least. If nothing else, she is seventy percent legs, and these legs will take her long distances in short bursts if she sprints. Longer strides. Strong quads.

He doesn't call after her. A glance over her shoulder shows him still smiling, though now there's a cigarette perched on his lips, smoke coiling around him lazily. He's not very good at the horror movie shtick, it seems - what sort of monster of the week doesn't give chase to his prey? - and Maka's sure she would have escaped the clearing without the Monster Mash taking a scalpel to her eyeball, too. Well, if it weren't for teen royalty Kid himself lurking ominously by her exit, looking gloomy and downright creepy amidst the foliage.

Maka skids to a stop. "Kid?!"

His expression is unreadable, carefully measured. "Hello, Maka."

There are footsteps behind her. She is a fool for helping him to his feet. Maka curses under her breath. "I should go," she says, vaguely, shuffling on her feet. Maybe if she positions herself correctly, he won't see her makeshift home, precariously pegged to the forest floor with bright-yellow plastic. "I, um-"

He smiles, then, but it's almost sort of sad. Pitying, even. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Know that she was being chased by the world's slowest titan? "I don't know how you could miss him," she hisses, trying to scoot around Kid. For someone so slender, he does a better job at being a blockade than she might've anticipated. "He is literally huge. There's no reason for humans to be that tall."

"Some of us are more gifted than others."

Blood racing, she spits out, "Normal people  _do not grow that tall,"_  only a little bitterly, still trying to find a way to weasel around him. She manages to slip beneath one of his arms, only for him to grab her by the wrist his hands surprisingly cold. "Hey!"

That smile has gone apologetic. "I'm afraid  _normal people_ don't live in tents, either."

Busted. The smell of tobacco lingers overhead like a halo, and she's a fallen angel, doom sinking into her gut, heavy like cement. She turns, still clutching her school bag, hoping her getup will at least inspire pity for the young, and her accidental landlord flicks the ashes with peculiar interest.

Well. Only the good die young, she supposes.

.

"But my permanent record! My spotless perfect attendance!"

Kid slides her a cup of tea across the table. Maka stares deeply into it as he takes his seat across from her, crossing one leg over the other. It's almost surreal, looking up, with the two of them watching her, in this unfamiliar, strange space. They're the ones who had invited her into their home (and she uses 'invited' very loosely - she'd been dragged in, and is now missing precious school hours because of  _trespassing_ ) and yet they're the ones who seem more on their toes than anything.

Nonetheless, Kid takes a sip from his own cup of tea and says, "I'm sure you can spare a day."

There's a tinge in her chest, plucking away at her heart. "Nooooo," she whines, curling her fingers around the handle of her cup. "It's not- I've never missed a day of school. Ever. Not even preschool! It was perfect for a reason." And as of now, it is officially  _not_. Mournfully, she takes a long sip of her drink.

Well… not officially, she supposes. Sure, a late day would be a stain on her otherwise immaculate track record, but something is better than nothing. If they hurry this up, maybe she can still make it to second or third period without missing much more of the day. It doesn't matter how heavy her head feels, or how the ache of exhaustion seems to set into her bones - there's caffeine in this tea, dammit, and it will get her through this.

Kid visibly winces as Maka begins speedily slurping down her drink. His brow does a little twitch and everything. "... Our apologies."

His… friend? Partner in crime? Fellow supernatural? clears his throat and smiles at her in that same peculiar, unnerving way. It's a little like being under a microscope, and Maka thinks that long white coat must be more lab than doctor. "It's not every day I find out I have a tenant living out in my backyard," he says, twirling his finger in his drink - coffee, she suspects. Black coffee, still simmering, bubbling.

Now she's wincing, too.

"I'm so sorry," she says, around the rim of her cup. Like hell is she going to give up just yet. "I-"

"Nor do I expect them to immediately flee upon discovery." He uses that same finger to press his glasses higher up his nose. Kid's lower lip disappears beneath his teeth. "How was I to know I was hosting a little fleet-footed bunny rabbit?"

There's something about a grown man calling her a bunny rabbit that really does not sit well with her. Maka considers lowering her teacup and ceasing this personal mission for all of three seconds before deciding it's Not Worth It and continues slurping. "Sorry-"

Of all things, he laughs. Heartily. Kid sighs and shakes his head, sipping his own cup of tea. "You're scaring her."

He is not scaring her. Grossing her out? Maybe. But fear? He should never feel so flattered.

Maka slams her empty cup down. The table rattles beneath the weight of her determination, and Kid fusses over the spillover from the other man's drink (does he have a name? Is he real?) as she pushes herself out of the rickety chair and attempts to grapple for her bookbag.

Roll for initiative. "I'm really sorry about all of this, and I'd love to explain some other time, but-"

"- Oh, I don't know about that," he drones, raising a brow. "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough. You have been staying on my land without proper documentation or permission, young lady. Quite frankly, I have every reason to go to the police with this, assuming you are a teenage runaway, and turning you back in to your parents-"

There's that pinch again, deep in her gut.  _Parents._  "I just-!"

He flicks his damp finger in her general direction. The man looks bored, now, as if her second wind isn't even noteworthy. "Just what? Just thought you could run off and still make it a half day? There's still so much to discuss. It'd be a pity to waste everyone's time like that, especially since we're already all gathered here. Does Kid look worried about missing class?"

He doesn't get it. God! She shouldn't even be here; it's such an embarrassing mistake, sleeping through her alarm. The sort of thing she'd done as a moody preteen, as an act of rebellion, when she hadn't truly appreciated what she had. A stable place to call home. A bed of her own.  _Mama,_  around to kick her into shape when the insecurity set in. Mama, around to braid her hair and help her memorize her times tables and help pay the bills.

There's no way he could ever understand. He's a homeowner. Quite a well off one, too, if his house is any indication; it's clear that neither of them are particularly talented at  _cleaning._  Dust lines the tops of  _everything_ , and judging by that musty smell, she should definitely not go anywhere near the kitchen or any potential bins that might be used for garbage. But beyond the questionable cleanliness of two off kilter men living together (no further explanation needed), the place really is  _spiffy_. Decorated to the nines, with matching sets of candles adorning each black accent wall. It's the strangest mix, and though it's laughably clear which areas are Kid's touch and which are Sir Creeps a Lot, it's still nice stuff.

Just… dusty. Dusty nice stuff. And Maka simmers, just thinking about the gall of it all. She, the selfish one! Who's he to judge - she lives in a tent! Isn't it clear enough that she has nothing to her name?

He might as well have laughed in her face. Maka clutches the strap of her bag in her hand and glares at him.

Kid sighs. "Stein, please. Manners."

 _Stein_  waves a hand. "She's fine. Nerves of steel, this one. I can see it in her eyes."

Such an odd moment to lob a softball of a compliment at her. Maka grits her teeth and drops her bag; he's issued a challenge, now, and though the mild panic born from missing school still sends sharp little jabs through her stomach, her stubborn pride has something to prove.  _Nerves of steel,_ after all. She might be an anxious cocktail of fight or flight, but she is not a quitter. That much, at least, is certain.

She's made of stubborn stuff. The same stuff that made up Mama, and she'll prove it. Maka sits back at the table, but it's not obedience that chains her there.

Stein smiles and leans back in his seat. He's obnoxiously tall, towering over everyone else in the room, even while seated. Maka can't relate; all of her (admittedly slight) height is in her legs. Short torso; long legs; big, ferocious eyes.

"That's better. So. Tell me," he starts, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. From beside him, Kid shakes his head and fidgets with the hem of his blazer. "What's a teenager doing camping out in the middle of nowhere on a school night?"

"Sleeping."

"Alone?" His brow raises. "I'm no expert on the subject, but I've come to expect a set of teens shacked up in a tent, if at all, so unless you were hiding a bunk buddy in that tent-"

"No." Maka shakes her head, pigtails whipping her cheeks. "No, I was alone. I work alone."

He laughs shortly, flicking a lighter, and like clockwork, Kid rises from his seat in order to crack open a window. And then he cracks open the second, too. A matching set.

"Work  _alone,_ " he says, balancing that lit cigarette lazily between pointer and middle finger. A grin cracks, and it's halfway between condescending and curious. It's such an unusual expression that she doesn't know quite what to make of it. "You're very young to be roughing it out on your own, you know."

"I'm seventeen."

He flicks the ashes into a nearby dish. "Practically ancient, of course."

That's not what she meant at all, but okay.  _Pick your battles,_  she thinks, staring very pointedly at her hands, and not his expression. It's not wise to turn her back to her opponents, or look away from the face of danger, but there's only so much of her tongue she can bite before something bleeds and she finally snaps. It's such a precarious, obnoxious mix, to be torn between respecting her elders and defending her own decisions. Instinct versus intuition.

"I'll be eighteen soon," she says, lacing her fingers together on the table. "Then I'll be an adult and people won't care if I'm on my own or not. I just have a year to go, right?"

"Hm." From the cracked windows, Maka can make out the buzzing of bees and the chatter of workers, doting upon flowers and their work. It burns her blood, makes her think of the weight of textbooks beneath her hands, the droning of her history teacher's voice in third period and oh, guilt. It's heavy, like damp laundry, the soggy, surprising weight of freshly washed denim.

Oh. And now she feels like crying. Gross. She has to swallow it down; she can stress cry over this later, but not now, while she's trying to put forth a strong front. Not while her maturity is being questioned. "How did you even find me, anyway?"

Laughter, and then, "Oh. Kiddo told me."

"Please don't call me that," he deadpans. "It's creepy when you say it."

"Is that any way to talk to your dear uncle?"

Maka looks up, finally, to squint between the two of them. " _Uncle?_ " They're  _related?_

Somehow, Kid manages to look graceful and dignified while rolling his eyes. She has half a mind to ask him for tips. "No. He is not my uncle. Please, do not feed this nice girl lies, Stein."

It's jarring, how quickly he's flipped from condescending intimidation factor to bemused, quirky Uncle. It's hard to tell how she feels about it. Still, he leans in, like he's about to bestow upon her a very juicy secret.

"We are Facebook official," he says, very seriously, to Maka. "He likes to keep it secret, but sometimes the truth has to come out."

"Stein," Kid says, with a withering sigh.

"We're part of the same Mob Wars family."

They've strayed so far from the topic at hand - and so very quickly, too. Maybe they are related after all; they're both so strange, in their own, unique ways. Mysterious, too, she supposes, but Kid seems more content to shroud himself in his enigmatic darkness than his uncle (quite literally - the dude's still clearly in his victorian goth phase). In Stein's case, Maka just can't seem to peg down whether or not she should be intimidated.

"I'm sorry," she says, fingers tight around each other. "How did Kid know I was sleeping there?"

 _Kid_  clears his throat. "We ran into each other. It… wasn't close enough to anywhere else for your residence in a home to be plausible. The family owns most of the land around here."

The  _family_. "I thought he wasn't your uncle?"

He manages to age ten years in about five seconds. Kid tugs at his collar button and says, miserably, "It's a long story.  _Please_  don't ask _._ "

Enough said. Sometimes, family is what one makes of it, who one chooses - sometimes, a family is a single mother and a bookworm know-it-all daughter and absolutely no man, ever, and that's okay. She still has questions, of course, and the whole Facebook official thing still raises a few brows, but whatever. Secrets are secrets, and family is family, and Maka really can't help the fact that she was bred from the loins of a womanizing asshole any more than Kid might be able to help that he's… maybe related to a mad scientist slash hellish landlord.

"Anyway!" Stein says, about as brightly as she supposes he can manage, for someone with cracked glasses and scars all over his fingers. He claps his hands together and, still a bite too cheerfully, says, "We should discuss your future!"

Hold on a sec. She didn't realize she was in the school's counselor's office, or that this was an episode of Dr. Phil. "I'm sorry," Maka blurts, "my future?"

"What we're going to do with you," Stein says, scooting back. It's only now that Maka realizes he's got a wheeled computer chair stationed at the dining table, for whatever indiscernible reason. "The lawful solution would be to contact the police, because there's a plucky runaway who has been staying on my property for god knows how long-"

"Not a runaway," she insists, shaking her head. "I didn't run away from home. I don't have anywhere else to go-"

"No parents? No guardians?" He asks, slowly wheeling back toward the table, adjusting his glasses. "I'm sure we could find someone. A mother-" ow, that's not a pinch, that's a direct stab to her heart, "-or a father, or-"

Enough is enough. "No," she snaps, and clenches her hands together. It helps bite back the sharp jab of guilt, of remorse. She doesn't need anyone, anyway, not when she has everything under control. Besides, does she look like she needs someone to take care of her? "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I will pay rent or something, just please don't go to the police with this."

The rumble of the wheels stops. His gut must've hit the edge of the table and served as a bumper. "... I believe this is considered kidnapping."

"It's not kidnapping if you're not keeping me against my will!"

"Is it?" He turns to Kid, expression peculiar. "Definition of kidnapping, please."

Without further prompting, Kid riddles off, "To take away illegally by force, typically to obtain a ransom."

Okay. Maybe Liz was onto something. Maka's the local brainiac, and even she can't recite off definitions like some sort of walking, talking dictionary. Perhaps she should hand her crown title of  _brainiac_ over, because that's something special. And she's more than a little jealous.

Stein nods serenely. "Ah. It wouldn't be kidnapping, then, to let you stay here."

It can't be this easy. This hope ballooning up in her is preemptive, and there's no way any man who'd given chase, for goodness sake, would let her off the hook this easily. There has to be a catch.

Like rent. She'd suggested it, after all. It has to be what he's after; greedy, greedy adult. He already has so much more than she does, but, whatever. Mama didn't raise a freeloader. It's only fair for Maka to pay her way, too. No freebies in the real world, not for her, not ever. Mama always said hard work was the root of all success, and well, if Mama said it, it has to be true.

Maka grits her teeth. Whatever. She'll just have to pick up longer shifts over the weekend. It's not like she has much of a social life anyway - Liz works the weekends, too, and Patty babysits Friday nights, so it's not like she'll even be missing much, anyway. Sleep is for the weak and she is strong.

Stronger than before, at least. Strong enough to endure this, if that's what it takes. Just one more year until college.

"How much do you want a month?" she asks, then, resigned. Being grown up sucks. Adulthood sucks, and she's not even officially  _there_  yet.

Stein laughs. "Oh. No, no, I couldn't ask for rent from a student, that's just absurd."

"... Sooo-"

He snaps his fingers. "You can cook!"

.

"Please, please, please," Kid practically  _begs,_  literally on his hands and knees before her. There's never been a man at her feet before, and Maka's not quite sure how she feels about it - there's a definite surge of power, and whether or not it's appropriate is yet to be determined. Still, it's all so very absurd, and she laughs in shock as Kid sits up, takes her hands in his and squeezes, because  _she didn't know he even did physical contact_. "I will do anything. Please, miss."

"M-Maka," she blurts, still wildly out of sorts. "Maka, call me  _Maka-_  a-and don't beg, it's  _weird!_ "

It has been fifteen minutes since Stein dropped that bomb on them and Kid is still at it. Stein, for his part, seems amused, and has since wheeled himself down the hall and out of sight. Now, she sits alone at the table, one very pretty boy alternating between bowing at her feet and clutching her hands like they're tiny lifelines, begging her to take up housework.

She wonders if this is what it's like to be married, if this is what she can come to expect, should she get married someday. Not really sure how she feels about it. The absolute worship is… nice, if a little weird, but the begging for food is tiring.

" _Anything_ ," Kid says, very seriously. "Name your price. Father's wallet is immeasurable. I will do anything for you, if you'll consider cooking-"

"Why can't you just cook for yourself?" she squeaks.

A dark, grim look washes over him. "I… am not the fastest in the kitchen," he says, mysteriously,and then swiftly alternates back to groveling. Almost immediately, he's bowed down again, and Maka yelps and tucks her legs beneath her, just to eliminate the chance of him kissing her feet. "I cannot stand one more day eating Stein's food. My lunch moved yesterday. Spaghetti should not move. It is not sentient. It has  _never_ been sentient."

… Okay. She can see the issue. But, still. "You ate it anyway?!"

He looks up at her. Ah. His face is a little sallow, now that she's really looking at him. Sharp cheekbones, pale lips. "I am useless in the kitchen. It is a dog eat dog world. I had no choice."

It's too much to ask of her. Between schoolwork, her part time job, and still finding a way to get at least six hours of sleep tonight, she cannot become their personal chef. Heck, Maka doesn't even know if her cooking is something that can be lusted after. It's true that she's a woman, but that says nothing about her talent in the kitchen. Really, she's gotta be as hopeless as Kid apparently is around a stove. Sure, she can boil spaghetti, and hers probably won't get up and walk away, but that's the bare minimum. And Kid should not be on his hands and knees begging for the bare minimum.

"I can't cook," she admits, pressing her hands to her chest. "Mama only taught me how to make, like, grilled cheese, Kid."

"Anything is better than nothing," he says, miserably. God. Are those tears in his eyes? Are they glittering? "Please. Please stay. Forever. Stay here forever. We have an extra room for you to sleep in-"

Maka doesn't know if she could ever sleep soundly in the same house as a mad scientist. "I can't ask you to do that. You don't even know me!"

There's something sobering in her words. She could laugh, if it wasn't so sad.

The whizzing of Stein's wheels echo down the hall. It's the most comical death march she's ever heard, except there's no time to laugh, not when Kid's looking at her like this. "You're right, I suppose," he says, and does not reach for her hands again. "... But letting you stay out there just doesn't sit right with me. One doesn't have to know you to understand that it's wrong."

Little orphan girl, playing pretend, all alone in the woods. He'd laugh if he knew the truth. Ruin the effect of those pretty tear-stained lashes of his. No, she thinks she'd like him to remain this way in her heart, a curiously tender-hearted boy, hidden beneath that veneer of spectacular eyeliner and gentleman….hood.

Well. It was poetic in her head.

"I don't want a handout," she says, squeezing her eyes shut. She can't look at him, not when he's got those eyes on her. She can't take the pity, even if he doesn't know the whole story. That same guilt's begun creeping up on her, again, just as steadily as Stein's wheely chair. "I can do this myself. I was fine, you know, until the two of you made me miss school-"

He sighs. "We have an extra bed. Please. I'm asking you this, as a favor to me. As a companion, a fellow classmate."

They've known each other for all of a day, and she's met him in passing maybe a handful of times, in between class, in the lunchroom. It's not fair to call them friends, and maybe he knows that. Still, it feels like such a personal request - the type of things friends do.  _Please, for me?_

It's unfair. She can't resist a call for help. How can she turn her back on someone in need?

"I'll pay rent."

"Maka," he starts.

"And I'm not quitting my job. I'm still working. I'm not dropping everything to be a housekeeper. I have goals, you know. And I'm not helpless. I can do both."

A hand drops on her shoulder. Maka opens her eyes and is saddened to discover it is not Kid that's broken the touch barrier again.

From behind, Stein says, almost gleefully, " _Well!_ Nobody said anything about cleaning, but if you insist."

.

Okay, maybe she's in a bit over her head this time.

It's not quite regret she feels, as Kid helps lug what little personal belongings she has up the stairs and into the spare bedroom. Not regret, but certainly not pride. Anxiety, most likely. Something she hadn't had a particular problem with even a year ago, but lately - especially in light of recent events, wedding ring wedged safely on her finger - it's been more of an issue. And right now, it seems to be sneaking back up on her, that creeping dread, restlessness churning her stomach. Still, she'd made her choice, and going back on her word is cowardly, so she's as good as trapped.

Hopefully her new bedroom is near a  _bathroom_. After the initial rush of anxiety usually comes the barfing. And as much as she weirdly wants to get to know Kid better and maybe befriend her new roommate, maybe it shouldn't be while he's holding her hair over the porcelain throne.

"I hope it's to your liking," Kid says, propping the door open with his elbow. "There's fresh sheets, at the very least."

It's easily the nicest place she's ever slept. The curtains are almost comically girly, white and filmy, with tiny roses embroidered around the hem. They match the comforter on the bed, too - cute, but sort of grandmother-ish, and Maka wonders which of the two of them picked out such flowery decor as Kid nudges the door shut behind them and carries her bags to the closet.

Maka stands, not quite in the doorway, and wonders just how she got here. Hours ago, she'd woken up late in her makeshift home, phone wedged beneath her back, and now - and now she's… not homeless? Kind of a maid? Also the personal chef of the most popular boy in her class?

This is the stuff preteens write about. Maka shakes her head and drops her bookbag at her feet. "I can't believe this is happening to me."

Kid pokes his head out from the walk-in closet. "Is it unsatisfactory?"

Is he kidding? There's a damn air conditioner. Mama had splurged on a boxed fan two years ago and it'd been the bees knees. "No! No, it's just…" Maka gestures to the bed, the pink carpeting, the door behind her. "... I was sleeping in a tent!"

He raises a brow. "We could pot some plants for you, if you'd like. Give it a more homey feel for you."

She squints at him. He cracks a grin. It's… a joke? "I've had enough dirt in my home for one lifetime, thanks."

"Well, if you change your mind," he says, shuffling back out of the closet and gently closing the doors behind him. "There's always this weekend. Do make yourself at home? It's your space, now, and the door does have a lock, so… if Stein's still making you uncomfortable, it'll keep him out."

Maka swallows her nerves; it's difficult, finding it in her to remain flighty, when he's being such a gracious host. She doesn't know what to say.  _Thank you_ feels like it's not enough, but- it'd been a trade, right? An even exchange. She's allowed to sleep in this bed, in this room, and in exchange, she'll help out around the house.

And…  _learn how to cook,_ apparently. Maka tries not to think about that one too deeply. It feels a little too stereotypically wife-like for comfort. She is no man's servant.

(She shouldn't be, anyway. Kid should have not made this deal. He knows not what he's gotten himself into).

So she goes with honesty. "It's very sweet of you," she starts, and offers him a smile, too. It seems to disarm him, and that momentary, mischievous grin melts down into his own brand of nerves. It disarms her, too. "This is all… very sweet of you. I don't know what to say."

He shakes his head. "It's nothing. It's the least we could do, after uprooting you so rudely-"

"-I thought I was the star in my own b-rated horror flick-"

"The intention was never to turn you into a scream queen," Kid says, in that serious way of his. She's starting to realize that it's just how he tells jokes -  _deadpan_. "However. I do think it would be wise of us to go over some house rules, just for the sake of everyone's comfort."

Reasonable. Responsible. Yes, there are a few things she'd like to settle, too. In all seventeen years of Maka's life, she's never lived with a man, not once, and the thought of cliche bathroom trips gone awry makes her nervous. "Knock before you enter a room."

His nod is resolute. "Absolutely. Ask before you touch someone."

Good.

"Put the seat down. I hear that's a thing."

Kid blushes a little, but doesn't object. "Cleanliness is of utmost importance."

Solid. Sort of something she thought was just, like, common practice, but - well, he's been living with that weirdo, Stein, for god knows how long, and okay, she can kind of see why he'd felt the need to bring it up. Gross.

Maka taps her chin. "Hm… never dogear a page? Always use a bookmark!"

"NEVER LET YOUR GUARD DOWN."

Kid's mouth opens into a perfect 'o', but it's not his mouth the damn exclamation came out of. She doesn't even have the chance to process that one. Brows raised, he looks expectantly to the door, as if that makes sense, and she only has the time to squeak out a 'what' before her (new) (former) (rest in peace) door is kicked off the hinges by one badass looking pair of Doc Martens.

(" _Nooooo,"_  Maka whines, as the door flies forward and collides with her new bookshelf).

In the doorway stands an angry looking boy. She knows he is angry because he is frowning, very, very passionately, and might be the only boy she's ever met that wears more eyeliner than Kid. Also, his jeans are ripped, and if anything says 'teenage angst' and 'distression', it's. Well. Distressed denim.

Anyway, he is angry and he is now  _shouting,_ and Maka considers adding 'inside voices' to this new set of rules each housemate must follow.

"Hello, Soul," Kid says, very bored. "I was beginning to wonder when you would  _drop in._ "

 _Soul._  Maka squints at this  _Soul_ person. For everything Kid is, Soul is decidedly not. He's wearing baggy, hastily cuffed jeans; what she presumes is a band tee hidden beneath oversized, black flannel; and said badass Doc Martens that she is kind of jealous of. It's very 2006 scene kid meets 90's grunge aesthetic, and she thinks he might be wearing red contacts, hidden beneath that purposefully shaggy white hair, and that's probably the most extra thing she's ever seen.

" _Hey_ ," he says, bitingly, and, oh. When he's not all shrill and screaming about keeping your guard up, his voice is kind of deceptively deep. "It was a good idea at the time, alright. It was fresh."

"You are  _still_ paying for the loans you took out to help repay for the roof."

He grunts and stomps his way into the room, as if being loud will help him look more imposing. Maka knows this game. She purposefully walks heel-toe for the same reason. "Whatever. You wanna go?"

Kid rolls his eyes and flicks his hair. "Take a hint."

"Unless you're too chicken," Soul taunts, crossing his arms. He's taller than Kid, she'll give him that, but the both of them are pretty scrawny, and she doesn't want to say she could definitely take them both in a arm-wrestling match, but she totally could. "Bock bock."

"How old are you, ten?" Kid scoffs.

"Older than you are, pipsqueak."

"What I want is for you to apologize to Maka for ruining her new door. It was such a nice door, too. I liked that door."

"You have literally replaced everything in this house at least once, and you will probably do it again. Stein's batshit. Get over it." Soul says, and then looks to her, as if finally realizing that she is here, too, thank you very much. He looks her up and down and then back to Kid. "Did you… get a girlfriend? Are you crazy?"

"Hey!"

"I have no interest in dating women, you know that," says Kid, smoothly. "I'm sure you know all about that, though."

Okay, so maybe she's in the middle of a lover's quarrel. Maka begins making her way toward the bookshelf to inspect the damage and hopefully (?) uncover what's left of the structure from the rubble. Meanwhile, Soul blushes as red as his colored contacts and scowls. "I have no interest in dating anyone, fuck you, dude."

"She is our new house guest. You should treat her with respect. Say hello."

" _I don't live here!"_

Stein wheels down the hallway and slides into the doorway, one monstrously long leg serving as a kickstand. "Now, now. Don't be a pussycat. Say hello!"

Maka kneels by the bookshelf and, as Soul leans over her to grab the door and toss it at Stein, too, she wonders just what she's gotten herself into. This is more than a little bit over her head; she's miles out without a paddle, and the only plausible floatation device was just thrown full-force at the mad scientist who lives three doors down.

Preteen Maka sure didn't write about  _this_  in her diary. No, she's pretty sure she just wrote about living as a successful author and her cute pet cat. Wishful thinking. This is her life, now. Watching boys rumble in her bedroom while she tries to rebuild in the aftermath.

It's dumb. This isn't who she is at all. Maka does not clean up after others; she makes her own messes, and if this Soul thinks he can just barge into her new life, pick a fight with her newest friend prospect and then wreck her door again, he's got another thing coming. The residual frustration of hours past boils over into sheer, guilty rage and Maka shrieks, springing to life and stomping over to grab him by the collar of his shirt.

And he yelps. "H-Hey!"

"I have had too long of a day to be dealing with this right now, buster-"

"- _-Buster!-_ "

Interruption is rude. She shakes him for good measure. He hisses and tries to wiggle out of her grasp. "WHY DID YOU RUIN MY DOOR. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG I HAVE LIVED WITHOUT A DOOR?"

"Let me  _go_ ," he grunts, "what're you, some kind of weightlifter hiding in a half-pint body-"

"I  _ **SCOOP.**_ "

He manages to wriggle out of her grasp, but not without ditching his shirt in the process. There's a flash of bare, pale skin, and boy nipples, in the flesh, and Maka's virgin eyes burn. She shrieks, shoving his shirt back at him, and he at least has the decency to scream, too, at his sudden nakedness. She overshoots, or he undershoots, or something, and her hands end up plastered against his bare chest. And, oh. There's a scar?

He flails. The hair on the back of his neck practically stands on end. "-Don't touch me!"

Oh, oops. That was a house rule, wasn't it? Day one and she's already breaking rule number two. "Sorry! I- you started stripping!"

His jerking back solves none of his problems. Her weight is thrown off by his sudden movement, and the world is not as solid beneath her as she'd originally thought, and the last thing she sees as they both plummet toward the ground is his scar, framed by two nipples and one fake piercing.

Said fake piercing jabs her in the cheek as she crashes into the ground. It's very cold, and she flings it away with relative ease. Which… shouldn't happen, because it was on his body, and his chest was not nearly this hairy literally seconds ago. There's a strange difference between what's hairy directly beneath her body and the carpet her face is smashed into.

Maka sits up and stares at the tiny white cat lying beneath her. Also those baggy pants and Doc Martens she's been eyeing.

And an eerie lack of half-naked boy scowling at her for being such a  _poser_.

What the fuck. Did she just bodyslam the human out of a punk ass kid? Maybe… maybe she's been the real monster all along.


	3. alone together

Like any sensible monster, Maka screams.

Talk about not knowing her own strength! Sure, okay, she  _ **scoops**_ , but this is just excessive - he's gone. Like.  _Gone_  gone. The punk ass kid she knew for 15 seconds is nowhere to be found, and instead, in the wake of her klutziness lies a tiny white cat, pawing after the fake piercing almost irritably. The cat has its own piercing, a tiny little black stud in his left ear, and for his part, he looks spectacularly done with her shenanigans.

Maka looks to her hands, instead. These man-punishing, cat summoning hands! She'd thought she was a little stronger than most people her size, sure, but not to this caliber! All in all, producing cats from thin air is not the worst superpower (she's a cat person, okay) - but maybe not the most ethical one, especially if it comes at the cost of sacrificing another human.

Because Soul is just… poof! So long, scene king. She's single-handedly written his tragedy and traded his rightful place in this world with a cat. Does… does this make her a furry?

She is a monster. A freshly-released, furry-summoning, man-smashing  _monster._ Fatality doesn't even begin to cover it; bodyslammed from this plain of existence, like some sort of behemoth! Who does she think she is, some kind of pro wrestler?

Frazzled, she grabs the cat and holds him up; in typical cat fashion, he quickly becomes liquid, boneless fur, and stares at her sleepily. She shrieks, "Oh my god!"

Stein seems supremely unmoved. He jabs his pinky finger in his ear and digs for treasure. "Ah. He turned out to be a pussycat after all."

" _I killed him."_

Kid drops to his knees and sighs. "You did not kill him."

"He doesn't have thumbs anymore!" Or. Like. Any human anatomy at all. He has  _toe beans._ And they're  _pink_. "Oh my god. I've made him  _ **adorable.**_ "

And really,  _adorable_  isn't even the half of it. The pet lover in her wants to cradle him close to her chest and baby talk to him, which is… iffy, considering just five minutes ago he'd been flesh and bone and boy. Maka Albarn does not do boy. It is well on record that Maka Albarn has  _never_ done boy, and for good reason, thank you very much. But when boy turns into cute cat with folded ears and a rosy little nose, well. Maybe her lines are more blurred than she'd ever thought. She contemplates it, for a hot second, because he is a very cute cat, all things considered (pink beans!) and she is only human, after all.

She… she thinks she's only human, anyway. She'd been pretty sure she was only human until approximately two minutes ago, when the world had finally turned upside down and significantly more furry.

In an attempt to soothe her, Kid attempts to take the freshly-transformed feline out of her hands. However, the moment the trade begins, Cat Soul hisses, bites Kid's thumb and darts out from their hands, landing gracefully on his feet a good foot away from them.

"HEY-"

"Not on your fucking  _life,_  rat!"

Such deep sounds should never come from a cat so tiny. It's just not right. Maka presses a hand to her heart and says, very seriously, "I can turn people into furries."

Soul's new kitty spine arches defensively. "Do I look anthropomorphic to you?"

"I can't believe you know what that word means," Kid says, nursing his bitten finger close to his lips. "You looked that up. Incredible."

" _Can it."_

"Well," Stein says, and when Maka looks over her shoulder at him, he's grinning absolutely gleefully, "guess the cat's out of the bag now!"

.

Puns are terrible and Stein should feel bad about them. Everyone in the room groans, and then her newly-minted catboy poofs into a very naked real boy, and never mind, upside down. The world breaks.

Or maybe that's just her. She's known the dude for all of ten minutes and lo and behold, the carpet matches the drapes.

.

Apparently this is something that just  _happens_.

Which, hello,  _no it does not._ Maka considers herself an avid reader - a lover of tales, one might say - but even her suspension of disbelief does not cover human boys turning into pint-sized pets. Especially at her own hands. If the last few days are any evidence, she's a bit of a klutz when she's stressed out, and if this were a normal thing, she would've turned half the population of Death City into gerbils and hedgehogs by now.

Fanning herself, Maka says, "This is all some sort of elaborate joke, right? I'm being Punk'd. If Ashton's not waiting outside in the hall too I'm calling shenanigans."

"... That show's been over for years," Soul says, grumpily. He won't meet her eye, and that's really a-okay with her. She's not sure she can look him square on without spontaneously combusting on the spot either. He's taken a seat about as far away as he can while still being in the same room as her, and it's still not far enough.

"I'm holding out for a miracle."

Kid pulls out the chair from her(?) desk and sits, one leg crossed over the other. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way. I was really hoping we'd be able to keep this a secret from you. It's… a long story."

Yes, well. It's not the only long thing in the room.

GOD. She could have gone her whole life without thinking that sentence and without any one villain to point a finger at, Maka irrationally blames everyone in the room. Especially Soul, who will get his just desserts when she can find it within herself to even think in his general direction again without her face becoming beet red.

"I have  _time,_ " she says through gritted teeth. It's not even noon yet and she's seen a full moon. Her patience and manners are on their last limb. "Humor me."

Stein attempts to wheel his way into the bedroom, but it's carpeted, so things don't really work out in his favor. He does an awkward crab walk, extra-long legs looking more like grasshopper limbs than anything else. It's almost prehistoric. "Isn't it obvious?" he asks, slowly inching his way toward fifty percent of the conversation. "Soul is a cat."

That extra twenty-five percent, who Maka still refuses to make eye contact with, scoffs. "I think she got that much."

She's still not sure she does, actually. "But he's human."

"He is," Stein agrees, stopping his slow approach finally and resting his arms on the back of the chair like some sort of teacher, even though he is possibly the least mentor-like creature she has ever met. "Is it so strange for him to be both?"

"Bi-species is not a thing." Please don't be a thing.

Kid sighs and gives Stein a wilting  _look_. "This  _is_  a secret, you know. Don't look so pleased with yourself. Even letting it get this far is breaking so many rules."

Stein's smile is entirely too unnerving. His chin rests upon his arms. "She's taking it well, though."

Is she? "Am I?"

"You haven't fainted."

This is a strange scale to be graded on. She is conscious but not convinced whether such a fact is a good thing or not. Truthfully, waking up and realizing all of this had been a very strange dream is sounding more and more like the ideal future, like maybe she's made a few wrong dialogue choices somewhere along the tree and now she's en route for the bad end.

All in all, she really doesn't think she's taking it that well at all. Maka still cannot make prolonged eye contact with one third of her companions. She knows he has a fake piercing. Among… other things. Aforementioned  _other things_  that she shan't think about. She has kicked another third in his family jewels. And she's certainly crushed the toes of the last third, too.

Oh. She's assaulted the entire group, in some form or another. Awesome. Maybe that should be a house rule, too: Maka is not allowed to wear her boots inside and is also not allowed to accidentally clobber anyone.

Head in her hands, she groans, "This is the weirdest day ever."

.

They're cursed.

Or… so they say, anyway. At this point, Maka has no reason not to believe them, and since she's really not in the mood to test such theory and find out if they're telling the truth or not, she'll just have to take their word for it. Kid probably wouldn't lie to her. Stein is yet to be determined, and Soul just needs to keep his pants on, so she won't question him any further - but Kid, at the very least, probably wouldn't lie to her about this.

They're cursed and she might actually be a YA protagonist after all.

Because there is a limit to how much tomfoolery Maka can handle in any one day, she shoos Soul and Stein from her room. Soul takes his leave of absence without question, pausing only to hiss menacingly and flip Kid off before literally jumping out of the window. A scream catches in her throat, and she reaches out, yelping, "Wait, no, don't jump-!"

Kid shakes his head and waves a hand in the direction of the open window. "Cats always land on their feet. It is about the only thing they're good for."

Stein begins traversing his way back through the carpet jungle and toward the door. Meanwhile, Maka squints at her chosen companion and begins to second guess herself. Is he… not a cat person? He seems like just the type of guy who would be good with cats, though; relatively calm, quiet, thoughtful. Seems like he would be happy to curl up on the couch with a good book and a purring cat by his side and call that a night.

Honestly, she's not too convinced she trusts anyone who doesn't like cats. But her options are otherwise limited - subject herself to Stein's oddities or… subject herself to sitting in a room alone with someone who's penis she's just accidentally gawked at at.

Yeah. Kid is still the safest bet, poor taste be damned.

"So... " How is she even supposed to go about this? "... He's a cat?"

Kid nods.

"And this is a normal thing that happens to him?"

Kid wobbles a hand. "He tends to not let girls get that close to him, but yes. That is a semi normal thing that happens to us."

 _Us._  "You're a cat too?"

His expression pinches, as if he'd just sucked on a lemon or something similarly sour. " _No,_ " he says, and there's such poignant offense in his voice that Maka takes an instinctual scoot back onto her new bed. "I am not a cat. Soul is the only cat here."

She stares at him suspiciously.  _Rule number two,_ she thinks. Ask before she touches someone. Maka can't test the theory in good faith, not without breaking the same house rule she'd just bulldozed through mere moments ago. So, what? He's like, a gerbil or something, then? Is he a chair? A Sephora bag?

He heaves a heavy sigh. "Are you familiar with the legend of the Chinese zodiac?"

The bookworm in her wilts. Ooh, that stings. If nothing else, she's supposed to be well read, or at the very least well versed in these kinds of things, even if she's not particularly a believer in astrology or the sorts. She knows she's an aries, apparently, but has never really bought into any of it. A fire sign, she guesses. That's probably cool.

But decidedly not what he's talking about. Isn't the Chinese zodiac represented by like, animals? Or something? It's different, and she doesn't know the answer, and that stresses her out. The nerdy little know-it-all that she is doesn't know something.

"... I'm sorry," she says. "I'm not the biggest astrology fan?"

He shakes his head. "No, no. It's fine. One second."

A gentleman until the end, he bows his head at her before turning to kneel before the mountain of rubble that was once her brand new door and bookcase. It's a mess, and there's wood everywhere, but through some princely magic he produces a picture book. There's a brief, scalding moment where she's insulted, unreasonably so, because  _does he think she is an idiot or something, she is not a child_ , but she swallows it down the best she can and grits out a smile. Hopefully it's polite. Or close to it.

"It's silly for us to keep something like this around, but it makes it easier," he says, approaching slowly. He gestures toward the corner of her mattress. "May I?"

"Yeah, of course."

He sits, then turns to face her. "I'm sorry you had to find out. I was really hoping we'd be able to shield you from this, but, well… Soul lacks tact," he says, very dryly, "and he has a habit of ruining things. I'm very sorry it extended to you."

"I'm not so sure about that," she says. "His eyeliner was perfect. Excessive, sure, but perfect."

Kid doesn't comment. Instead, he offers the picture book to her with a pinched expression. Maybe this is just his regular face. Constantly judging, constantly stressed, something in between sour-patch-kids and constipation. "Believe what you wish."

Reading the book is laughably easy. She's been reading at a college level since 8th grade, and this picture book is, well. A picture book. It's meant to be read by small children, and it's surely been streamlined for ease, so she tears through it in relatively no time at all. The knowledge-hungry sponge within her soaks up the tale greedily - the legend of the banquet thrown by God. All of the animals were invited, but the rat tricked the cat into thinking it was the day after, and so he slept and dreamed the day away instead, while all of the other animals attended and celebrated.

She thinks of Soul, then, unreasonably defensive, the angry, aggressive set of his brows, and it clicks in place. What a sad tale, no matter how simple. How lonely it must be, to be left out.

"... So…?"

"This is us." Kid says, solemnly. "Our curse. Stein and I are cursed with the spirits of the zodiac, and so when we are feeling particularly weak, or sick, or-"

"Or  _bodyslammed?_ "

"Or embraced by someone of another gender, yes." He nods. "Then we change into our animal forms."

It explains why she's seen him eating lunch alone in the cafeteria so often. Come to think of it, she can't remember a time when he's ever been particularly chummy with a girl, despite his popularity. What a lonely life that must be, too; the constant, everlong fear of growing too close to another person, lest they learn his secret.

Maka runs her fingers through a tangled pigtail. So much to take in at once, even for her. "... And then you come back naked."

He at least has the grace to pink. "Yes, well. Clothes do not fit animals the same way they fit humans. You understand that, I'm sure. A cat is much smaller than a full-grown human boy, even if Soul is scrawny."

He'd been such a tiny meow-meow, too. Adorably small, with pink little beans. The difference between that form and his true self, the slouching, angry punk is almost jarring - but then she thinks of the way he'd looked when Kid had reached for him, hissing, fur standing up on end, and the lines overlap. Perhaps it's not so different after all.

Still. "You must be the rat, then."

Kid does not smile. She expects more of a reaction than she gets - some  _pride,_  or something, for the animal who'd ridden to the banquet on the back of the ox - but he simply nods at that, too. If he feels anything more than mere recognition he doesn't make it explicit, and they haven't quite graduated to friend-levels where Maka can comfortably read between his carefully measured lines yet.

"I am the rat," he says.

"And Stein?"

Still no smile. "The dog."

That's… oh. Not really what she'd quite expected. "Aren't dogs supposed to be loyal?"

"He is loyal," Kid says, short and sweet. To the point, even if Maka can't quite see that point. Though, now that she really thinks about it, she does feel a little bit like she's been thrown out to the dogs; here she is, living the life of a YA novel protagonist, despite hardly agreeing to such a fate.

She toys with the idea. Loyal, maybe, to those he considers his own? His family? A dog's a man's best friend, after all - but all in all, she's really not sure who that man is. It can't be Kid; he'd been much too desperate for Maka to move in and save him from science-project lunchbags.

"If I throw a stick, will he fetch?"

Finally, Kid cracks a grin. "Try throwing him a bone instead."

.

Her biggest mistake is forgetting to text Liz.

Thursday morning, as Maka walks into class, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Kid, all Hell breaks loose. She should've thought ahead, or planned ahead, or something - walking in with who Liz still believes to be teen vampire royalty after a day of radio silence has to be the weirdest sort of validation for her conspiracy theories.

Liz looks up from her seat. Stops primping, twists her lipstick back into its shell, and when Maka meets that hardness of her best friend's stare, she knows she's made a grave error. There are few things worse, in Liz's book, than making her worry - and absence from school is so unlike Maka that she can't imagine what must've gone through her head. Well, she can. Probably the entire plot of the Twilight movies, complete with childrearing and birth.

Maka smoothes her hand down her abdomen, just to remind herself of the truth. "I forgot to text them," she mutters to Kid.

He does not falter, but he does offer a glance over his shoulder. "... Should you have?"

"I'm so sorry for your upcoming interrogation."

He doesn't seem to like the sound of that. Ever the picture of manners, though, he does not tense up - but there's this tightness, in the way his lips press together, this hitch in his brows that does not go unnoticed. He might be refined, but there is still grit in him, in brief, flash moments. "I see."

She doesn't have another chance to apologize; by the time Maka's shut the homeroom door behind her, Liz is up in a flurry, heels clicking in rapid succession. "I THOUGHT YOU DIED."

Oof, okay, hello, boobs. "Mffhhm!"

"I THOUGHT YOU  _DIED,_ " Liz croons again, hugging Maka very tightly to her chest. In all of the years they've known each other, Liz still doesn't seem to understand height differences and what it is like to be on the other side of the hug. Her boobs are great, of course, but just as suffocating as they've always been, and Maka attempts to tap out on her shoulder while Liz cradles her head to her bosom. "Why didn't you text? Or call? I've been worried sick!"

"She has!" Patty chimes.

"-It was just a day!"

"But you've never missed a day of school!" She releases her, finally, and Maka sucks in a gulp of fresh air, happy to be free. "It's so unlike you to miss a day of school, okay? You're, like, the biggest nerd I know-"

"Hey!"

"Oh, you know I mean it with love," Liz says, very fondly. Even goes as far as to ruffle her hair affectionately, effectively disrupting the perfectly angled pigtails that Kid had styled so dutifully only an hour before.

Aside, Kid makes a whining noise, based deep in his throat. It's not unlike a scream.

Liz stares at him. "... What's he doing here?"

Oh, right. Maka had gone through oodles of exposition yesterday, and her quirky, right-hand girls hadn't been around to also experience it. Well. It's probably for the best, really - it is a secret, after all. Every little bit of it, from roughing it out on her own in a tent in bumfuck nowhere to shacking up with Kid and his weird uncle. Honestly, Maka doesn't even know where to begin.

"... We live in the same neighborhood," Maka lies. Barely. It's a tiny fib, a white-lie - they did live in the same neighborhood, if Stein's land counts as such. It's not entirely false, anyway, but also not the whole truth, and lying has never really been one of Maka's strong suits. "It just made sense to walk to school together. There's power in numbers!"

Liz raises a carefully-shaped brow. "You've never needed the buddy system before. Hell, you won't even let me take bathroom trips with you. You said it was a waste of time, remember?"

Maka slides past her and drops her bookbag on her desk. "I only said that because you were using my period as an excuse to skip class."

"You were bleeding. It was the honorable thing to do."

"Liz, we bleed every month. I had a pad." Ridiculous. Maka might be newly motherless, but it doesn't mean she needs constant supervision and care - with adulthood right on the horizon, it'd be stupid of her to require a chaperone for every little thing. Especially something as mundane as a bathroom trip.

Liz still doesn't seem entirely convinced, though. She shoots Kid a suspicious stare and gives him a good once-over. Maybe a twice-over, really; Liz is a hunter, through and through, and though Kid gets his pants dry-cleaned and his shirts laundered and starched, he's still very handsome all the same. Liz would have to be blind not to notice.  _Anyone_ would have to be blind not to notice. Hell, Maka doesn't think twice about men and even she knows he's easy on the eyes. He's pretty, in a statuesque sort of way; long lashes, high cheekbones, delicate lips.

Pretty boy, she thinks. Pretty  _rat_ boy. The thought is almost laughable.

"... I've got my eye on you," Liz mutters, pointing between them. "Sleep with one eye open, Edward."

Kid blinks. "You've misunderstood. My name is-"

" _Cullen,_ " Liz spits, dropping to sit next to Maka. "Her blood's off the market."

Maka sends him a withering look. He takes the threat in stride, offers her a sad, forgiving smile and makes his way to his desk, where he sits, front and center, like the teachers pet Maka wishes she could still be.

.

She's never noticed how lonely he is before.

It's sad, really. Before, she'd just thought he was a bit of a prissy know-it-all, that he'd thought he was better than everyone else and that was why he didn't associate with many (or any) of his classmates. Now, though, it's different.

The truth is sort of sobering. He's lonely, because he's afraid of letting his secret slip. She supposes it's fair, to be afraid of the girls who giggle and gossip down the hall, when one wrong move could turn his entire world upside down. Literally. He could be man one moment and rat the next, and so long, normal life, hello, the pound. Assuming rats are taken to the pound, of course. Hello, animal control?

Hello,  _Hell._

He sits alone in the lunchroom, chewing on the ham sandwich she'd bagged up for him this morning, flipping the page of his novel. No one approaches him, though she's sure it's out of fear. Teenagers are sort of hard-wired into the caste system - that is to say, teenagers tend to be condemned to the tiers of the high-school social hierarchy, and with his money, good looks and unattainable status, he's popular. No, he's the  _king_. And he doesn't even have any friends to prove it. He sits atop his throne, loyal subjects gawking at his feet, shooting enamored glances his way, never once stopping to try and make conversation.

It makes her heart hurt. And, well, Maka knows a thing or two about loneliness. Certainly knows something about coming home to an empty dinner table. And that aching, suffocating loneliness inspires her, and Maka ignores the looks his fanclub sends her way as she marches over and drops her own matching lunchbag down.

"Hey," Maka says, plopping down across from him. The booth creaks beneath her weight, skin already sticking to the cheap fabric of the seat as she tucks her legs beneath, her. "How's the sandwich?"

He looks up. There's a crumb, right there on his lower lip, and Maka can't help but focus on it. She's never seen his perfection blurred before, never seen a chink in his armor. "... It's fine," he says, quietly. "Thank you for making it. I really can't thank you enough for all you've done."

She could laugh. "It's a cold-cut sandwich. It's nothing, Kid. Really."

There's something more, dawning there in his eyes, but Maka's still not wise enough to read between the lines. Not yet, not yet. They're only level one friends, if you can call them that. Friendly at best. "Where are your friends?"

Maka pulls out her own turkey sandwich and begins unwrapping it. "Oh. Liz likes to study with the teacher's assistant sometimes because she thinks he has a cute butt, and Patty's got lunch detention. She got into a fight in second period with Justin Law."

He raises a brow. "Is she alright?"

"Oh, she's fine," Maka says, munching on her sandwich. "You should see the other guy though."

"Patty… is the shorter one?" He asks. Maka nods, then takes another bite. Kid shuts his book and politely slips it into his bag. "Ah. Yes, I could see her being quite rambunctious. She has this aura about her."

Patricia Thompson is high energy, that's for sure. Scrappy and friendly, and probably the first true friend Maka had ever made. She smiles, despite herself, and peels off the edge of her crust. "He deserved it. He was talking crap about her sister, and, well. The two of them are so ride or die…"

The corners of his mouth perk. "I can see that. Your other friend, Liz, is that her name?" Maka nods. His smile almost widens. "She's very protective of you."

"She's such a mom," Maka says, sighing. "Can you tell she's the older sister? I keep telling her I'm fine, and that she should lay off, but she never listens. I'm sorry. She's very nice, I swear. She just has to warm up to you first."

"No, no, it's fine," Kid assures her. "I'm a stranger to her, after all. And it's clear she cares about you very much. Which… well, pardon me for being rude, but. May I ask why you hadn't told her about your living arrangement?"

Her  _living arrangement._  Ha! What a joke. It'd been a last resort, her final stand. After all, anything was better than seeking out a father who'd never wanted her. Anything at all, including living alone, in a tent, in the middle of nowhere. Illegally, at that. On land she'd never paid a dime for. Effectively, she'd been homeless.

"You mean my tent," she says, still picking apart her sandwich. He continues to stare at her, very imploringly, and perhaps Maka feels a bit too brave, divulging in her own secrets. But she supposes fair is fair - she knows his secret, and now he'll know hers, too. "I couldn't tell her. She'd break her back trying to get me to stay at their apartment, too. Do you know she works after school? Money's tight enough without a third mouth to feed."

That almost-smile softens. "... How can she live alone like that?"

"Emancipation." And a hell of a lot of hard work. But that's Liz for you, she supposes. Too stubborn to give in. Maka respects that. Idolizes it, even. Works actively to recreate such tenacity in her own life. "She didn't want to lose Patty. Family's  _important_ ," she says, and that heartache is back, sinking deeper into her chest.

He goes quiet then, too. Thoughtfully so. She doesn't quite have the nerve yet to keep the tears from budding beneath her lashes and Kid keeps staring, tactlessly. God. Maka grips her hand into a fist and scrubs at her eyes.  _Ugh._

"... My family is strange," he admits, while Maka's trying to focus more on her turkey sandwich than awkwardly crying in front of her newest housemate. "And I guess I don't quite understand what it's like, to care that strongly about anyone. But I'm sorry. I know it must be hard on you."

"What," she blurts. She's much too old to cry, but it's stupid, how emotional she is these days. Stupid, because Mama hadn't cried, not even once; she'd been so strong, carrying the world on her shoulders without second thought. Carrying  _Maka_  on her shoulders, without a care what anyone else thought. "They're not  _my_ sisters-"

"But they're important to you," he says, nodding slowly. "They're your family, aren't they?"

The only family she has left. Perhaps the only family she'll ever have again.

"... I couldn't ask her to do that for me," Maka says instead, staring very pointedly at her crumbled lunch. Oh. Somewhere along the way, she'd become a one-woman demolition crew. Oops. "She has enough on her plate to worry about. I couldn't burden her like that. Or anyone like that. So I did what I had to in order to get by."

He says nothing, only politely opens his own empty paper bag and helps dust the crumbs of her former sandwich away. Maka scrubs at her eyes again, stubbornly, because crying is for the weak and she's strong, dammit, and certainly not a little girl anymore. The last thing she needs is for Kid to think she's incapable of taking care of herself, because that's not the case at all. Just. Sometimes things hit her harder than they hit others, she guesses. Loneliness and all that.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," he says, quietly. Maka takes a deep breath and is relieved to find kindness there, in his eyes. Thoughtful kindness. "I know that must've been difficult for you."

She's headstrong. Bullheaded. No mere dainty flower, left to wallow in her misfortune. Never a damsel in distress.

"... Fair's fair, right?" she asks, and he cocks his head like a bird. "A secret for a secret."

There's that dawn again, sunrises in his eyes. Golden sun, peeking through inky lashes and a fresh, exact layer of eyeliner. "Absolutely."

.

"So why go to public school, if this is such an issue for you?" she asks as they walk home.

The afternoon light is still warm, and though it's September, the crisp bite of fall still hasn't quite sunken in yet. It's warm, in the afternoon, and Maka's rolled up the sleeves of her oversized sweater to her elbows, but Kid is still pristine in his pressed shirt. No wrinkles, no folding, no sweat stains, even though there's a distinct glitter of perspiration highlighting his pale forehead.

He grimaces, of sorts. "That's cowardly."

"... Attending a private school? There are boys academies around here, and you'd definitely get a better education at one of those instead - you wouldn't have to rely so much on tax dollars, and they'd better cafeteria food there-"

Kid shakes his head. "No."

It makes sense, in her head. Eliminate the chance of potential run-ins with girls, eliminate the chance of suddenly becoming tiny and furry and also naked. Logically, it makes sense. And Kid really seems like the kind of guy who would care about that sort of thing. He's an orderly guy; between his unfolded book pages and labeled folders, it seems as though he likes things organized effectively, likes things to make sense. And avoiding girls makes sense.

Hell, avoiding her makes sense. She body slammed Soul into a cat, right after promising to ask before touching anyone. And yet here he walks, by her side, focused on the path ahead.

"... No?"

"I don't want to live like that," he admits, and Maka hurries her steps to fall in line with him. He's so quick, she thinks, scurrying along. Wastes no time with silly things like short strikes - he might be the first person she's met who's so closely proportioned like she is. Shojo legs.

"Afraid?"

He shakes his head again. "Sheltered. Or… yes, afraid. Essentially, though, I don't want to live a sheltered life. It would be easy to attending a boys-only academy, but it would be cowardly. And not the true high school experience. Not like the movies, anyway."

Maka literally cannot imagine Kid ever attending a cliche high school party and letting some drunk freshman puke all over his fancy shoes. He'd be so out of place it isn't even funny, but- but still, the thought of it all is kind of sad, sacrificing his safety and secrecy for a chance to live a normal life. To be a kid, she thinks, watching him for a moment, as he seems to toy with the words on his tongue before speaking again.

"... I would like friends," he admits, then. "Real friends. But… I don't know how to make them. I don't like hiding, but I don't know what else to do."

"You talk to people," Maka says, and their elbows brush, just barely. "Oh. Sorry, shoot."

It's like she's burned him, judging by the way he reacts, jumping and cupping his elbow in his hand. And it makes sense, she supposes, that this is what gets him to finally break character- he's spent so many years of his life afraid of touching anyone, lest things go awry. Maka can't blame him for building such walls, not when they've kept him safe for so long; but if he wants to break free from his  _cowardice,_  well. Walls just won't do anymore.

She gets it. Like a lightbulb, finally blinking to life above her head. This is what he'd meant, when he'd called it cowardly. It's hard to live, if he's always playing on the safe side of life. Too safe to even know the comfort of friendly ribbing, or nudged shoulders between companions.

Lonely. And probably a little touch starved, too.

"... It's fine," he says finally, allowing his arm to drop to his side again. Not close enough to brush shoulders, of course, but enough so that there's still no denying their  _togetherness_. " _You're_ fine."

Friendships are not born overnight. Inside jokes, memories, comfort - no, those things are the long haul, cultivated over time. The very things Kid's never been brave enough to chase after, before. They might still be mere housemates, barely acquaintances - but when Kid glances her way, a shy, nervous smile chipping away at that statuesque perfection he seems to maintain, it's easy to say they're not  _strangers_. They couldn't be, after all. There's too much on the table now, too much shared between them.

A secret for a secret.

"I'm lousy at talking to people," Kid admits.

He's not. He just doesn't have the same experience at everyone else. It's not fair, to judge him at something he's been harboring a handicap for since the get-go.

Maka shakes her head. "Don't say that."

"I  _am,_ " he says. "I always end up saying the wrong thing. I'm terrible at making small talk. I don't watch the same movies or attend the same parties as our peers, and I'm just no good at  _instant messaging._ "

"IMing is  _not_  the only way to make friends, Kid." And if it was, she'd be right there with him, up creek without a paddle. "Lots of people find you interesting. You'll just have to find a way to get to know them. But in your own way. On your own terms."

He heaves a heavy sigh and looks to his feet. "That's easier said than done. It's different for you. You're… personable."

Well. On a list of things she's been complimented on before, that's not one she's particularly proud of. Hardly personable, really, if her first impression on nearly everyone in his family thus far has been assaulting them. Crushed a pair of expensive shoes, kicked a man in the family jewels and dismantled Soul's entire being and whisker-ified him. Is that really a fair judge of character? Does he have enough to go off of?

Her doubt must bleed through. Kid chuckles, and it's only then she realizes he's glanced up from the ground ahead to look at her, instead. "You are. You're very kind, even when it's not easy. Not everyone can stomach Stein, you know. Or try to ambush Soul immediately upon introduction."

"I  _body slammed_ him."

"Not the worst," he insists. "He's had much worse first impressions."

"Not the point, either!" she fires right back, stopping in her tracks. He pauses, too, still too polite to continue on without her. Whether it's that, or a fear of being left alone, again, and losing the only chance he's ever had at sincere companionship, Maka chooses observe too deeply. "You're kind, too. In your own way!"

Goodness, is his expression dry. "Maka."

" _Kid_ ," she chimes back, cheekily. Even crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him, as if it will make her more imposing, will make her appear more serious. "You're nice."

"I try very hard to give off that impression."

"You're  _nice,_  even when you're afraid of what might happen. You willingly put yourself into the fire!" It's brave, braver than she'd initially realized.

And if there's one thing she respects, more than anything else, it's  _bravery_. That tenacious, stubborn courage is probably the one thing she respects most in a person - probably, definitely, entirely because it reminds her of her mother, her head held high, hair tied back in a tight bun as she'd refused any and all help, all for the sake of her daughter. For  _her._ And in that brief, fleeting moment, when Kid meets her eyes and the weight of her words sink in, she sees a reflection of what she'd once seen there, in her mother. A hunger for something more, despite the odds.

It's not the time to be getting choked up. Maka's not that little girl anymore anyway. She ought to be brave herself, too. Be her own hero.

"Hey," she says, while Kid still stews over it. "I'll be your friend."

Bewildered - and perhaps a hint caught off guard - he actually sputters. "I-wh-"

"I'll be your friend," she says again, feeling only half as tumultuous as she probably should. Curse be damned, Maka thinks, and offers out a pinky to him, chin held high. Life's too damn short to spend it alone. "Friends keep secrets."

He stares at her pinky. "I… I'm afraid I don't know what this means."

Jeeze. He wasn't kidding about that whole sheltered thing. Poor prince, held locked away in his pretty little tower, far away from childish games and pop culture.

"It's a pinky swear," Maka says, and his brows knit together, looking from her eyes to the outstretched finger. "We lock them and shake, and then it's a promise."

She can practically see the little sparkles in his eyes. "... A  _promise,_ " he says, almost reverently.

Maka wiggles her pinky. "Don't leave me hanging, buddy."

It's weird, but  _ **buddy**_ is what does it for him, apparently. Kid locks pinkies with her, shakes, and then immediately insists they do the same with their opposite hands, too. And because Maka's a little superstitious, too, she goes along with it; there can't be any harm in doubling their promise and Kid seems so serious about it. Who is she, to break the magic of a pinky promise for him? She'll do it three times, if that's what makes him happy. The real, genuine smile he flashes her after is worth it all.


	4. the reckless and the brave

"Well well well," Stein says, far too gleefully, "look what the cat dragged in!"

If there's one thing Maka has learned in the two weeks she's been living in this animal house, it's that there is never truly a quiet moment. There are too many variables, too many people - too many puns for Stein to rehash. For his part, Soul looks particularly exhausted, having freshly crawled his way through the living room window, the lines of his mouth pressed deeply into a frown.

"You know," he says, and it's still weird to her, how deep this cat's voice is. "You really don't have to say that every time I enter a room. It wasn't funny the first time and it's still not funny now."

The good doctor quirks a brow and flips to the next page of his novel. "But where would the fun in that be? Our alley cat has returned home."

Soul huffs and closes the window behind him. "One, I don't live here, so cut that shit out-"

"You might as well, you spend enough time sleeping on our roof-"

"-Two," he says, stubbornly, "you don't have to announce my presence every time I try to sneak in, you damn mutt. Hard to catch Kid by surprise when you're barking loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear."

Oh. She gets it. It's a dog thing. Yeah, she can see how that would be annoying - but really, what grinds her gears is all of the damn puns and cat jokes. Before moving in, she'd grossly underestimated the number of  _pussy_  jokes held secret in the English language. Now, she wishes for nothing more than some damn peace and quiet during the after-school hours where she's not stuck scooping ice cream or trying to sleep. Just once, she'd love for Homework Hour not to devolve into Stein's own personal pun-off.

It's exhausting. And terrible.  _Pussy_  is a weird, gross word, and Maka shoots him a glare before he has the chance to mull over future potential catisms.

"Oh, Kid has eyes on the back of his head. You'll never catch him off guard if you keep stomping around like that anyway," Stein says, too pleasantly. "But hello, Soul. Nice of you to drop in."

"Get fucked, dude."

Maka finds herself squinting at him, homework be damned. "Language."

They've scarcely spoken, save the naked incident, and when he looks her in the eyes she's reminded once again of how lame he is for wearing red colored contacts. "Get fucked,  _sir,_ " he says, without a moment of hesitation, and something churns in her, low and irritated.

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

He ignores her, which only serves to piss Maka off more. Rude, rude boy. She might think about hashing it out with him, if she wasn't still so afraid to accidentally disrobe the guy again.

In two weeks, she's learned so little about this Soul person. It's been easy to get to know Kid and Stein, because they do live here, but their resident alley cat likes to make himself scarce. Or… feasibly scarce. He's never too far away, not really - far enough to not be in their immediate vicinity but close enough that his watchful eye never strays. More often than not, he can be found napping on the roof or laying out in the late afternoon heat, sunglasses on, fingers twitching.

"Kid's not here," she says, then, feeling a little petty and a lot annoyed.

Soul falters, only for a moment. "... But he never goes anywhere."

"That's not true." Maka taps the eraser of her pencil against the table. "I sent him out to get groceries. It's good to get out of the house every now and again. Fresh air is good for you!"

"He will burn so fast."

Does he take her for a fool? Maka narrows her eyes and points her pencil at him threateningly. "Sunscreen is my mistress. Besides, he's a big boy. He can take care of himself."

Soul laughs. It's a short, choke of a sound, really, caught somewhere between his belly and his heart. He quirks this little half-smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, and folds his arms, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside him. If it's to look aloof or cool, she doesn't really buy it; it's hard, she finds, to take him seriously, after accidentally stripping him down only weeks ago. Hard to believe anything when she knows he has a fake nipple piercing.

"Whatever," he says moodily.

_Whatever._  God, he's such a bratty teenager. What she wouldn't give, to be able to afford such flippant freedom. Roam as he will, without an obligation in the world, without responsibilities and duties and  _so many accelerated classes_. It ignites something petty in her. A bit jealous, too.

It's stupid. She's knows it's unreasonable, but maybe she's a bit too protective of her new friend, and this rogue catboy seems to have taken it upon himself to try and catch him off guard with a knuckle sandwich.

"Don't you have something else to do?" she huffs, dropping her pencil, pressing her palms flat to the table. "Or somebody else to bother?"

It's unlike her, to be so contrary. Maka, friend to all, unnecessarily kind, even to those who might not deserve it. But there's just something about the way he scoffs and kicks off of the wall that really bugs her, the way he seems to regard her as less than a person, the way he looks right through her to glare at Stein, instead. She can handle social anxiety, can handle shyness - what she can't handle is downright rudeness.

She is a person, too. And if he thinks he's better than her just because he can sprout some whiskers and become fuzzy and adorable, well, he has another thing coming.

So she clears her throat. Stands up and props her hands on her hips. "I'm right here, you know. It's rude to ignore someone when they're talking to you!"

His jaw sets. There's a brief, dark moment, when his eyes slide over to hers, that she senses something more than just petty brattiness in his stare. A mulled fear, hints of anger. Perhaps even a taste of envy, written in the crease between his brows, such a curious, angry wrinkle. Maka doesn't budge, because she has nerves of steel, and Mama always said boys could not be trusted, not when they wear leather jackets, but there's a moment where the righteousness in her cracks, just a bit. Like a stray pebble on a windshield.

And just like that, it passes. Whatever shone through his expression in the brief moments of shock is quickly packaged away, and Soul scowls, muttering, " _Whatever,_ pigtails."

Before she has the chance to inquire further - or even scold him - he's out the window again, far too nimble for his own good.

.

She doesn't get him.

Hell, she's not even sure what there is to get. He's an enigma; at least Kid had been easy to talk to, despite his own reservations. He'd been kind, even through the resulting awkwardness and discomfort that had come with the discovery of her tent setup. And Maka likes to think they're something close to friends, now. They sometimes stew over homework together. He pops into the kitchen and offers to help while she's making dinner. And on the particularly lonely nights, when nightmares of Mama are too much, he's always three steps behind her, offering to brew up some tea and watch some discovery channel.

But Soul just doesn't make sense. He's cursed, just the same as Kid and Stein, and okay, sure, she's seen his penis now, but with a curse like that she seriously doubts nobody else has ever seen that before. Like. His mother, surely, would've run into the same problem. Probably girlfriends of the past, too. There's no way a boy who looks like that hasn't had a few girlfriends in his past. If Kid is the prince, Soul's the bad boy, toting away girls on the back of his motorcycle for subpar foreplay and disappointing vaginal sex.

He's Liz's type, anyway, and Maka knows those types. She's broken the nose of two and she's not afraid to make it a hat trick, if push comes to shove.

Soul  _doesn't live here,_  but he still comes around at least three times a week. Still sleeps outside in their field, or on the roof, or sometimes - rarely - Maka will come back from school to find him curled up on the carpet, napping in the sun. And while it's adorable, and he's almost cute, in those brief moments where his scowling doesn't mar his pretty face, it's still unnerving. Doesn't he have anywhere else to be? He doesn't even seem to  _like_ anyone in the house and yet he still always finds his way back.

For goodness sake, she doesn't even know if he goes to school! Maybe all of those jokes about Soul being an alley cat have some merit. Street kitty roams free, without a place to call home, naps wherever he finds is safe enough.

The thought softens her. Stubborn, self-sufficient Maka can understand that, even if it's masquerading behind layers and layers of eyeliner and teenage rebellion. Loneliness, she thinks, takes many forms - and it burns all the same, a slow, stinging simmer, slipping deeper and deeper into the gut.

And that she understands. She'll always understand.

Maka hugs her pillow to her chest and rolls over, sighing. It's none of her business, really, but there's still some part of her that can't quite let it go, no matter how annoyed she is with him. Mama might've taken a chunk of her when she'd passed, but compassion remains, still, even though her own heartache. And that's a part of her that just refuses to quit.

Even if he's a punk ass kid.

.

It's awfully lively for a Saturday morning.

When she'd lived with Mama, Saturdays were quiet. Mama worked the late shift on the weekend, and so preteen Maka spent her mornings in her pajamas, eating cereal with the morning cartoons turned down low. There was an unspoken agreement there - it was the one day of the week Maka was allowed to slack off from studying, as long as she kept it down and let her mother sleep.

With Kid and Stein, though, it's a completely different story. For one, they don't understand the meaning of  _sleeping in_ \- Kid's already up at the crack of dawn, tending to his garden outside, and not even half an hour later Stein's already seated in the living room, book cracked open, spectacles propped up on his nose.

Maka squints at her phone. 7:45 AM.

Ungodly, for people who don't have a job or school to get to.  _Animals._

… She snorts, squirming around in bed, searching for her missing socks. They're  _animals,_  quite literally.

Bad joke. Maka sighs, scrubs at her messy hair, and ties it back in a scrunchie as she makes her away down the hall. Stein barely acknowledges her as she enters the room, raising a hand to wave nonchalantly before flipping his page and resuming his bookworming. Once her hair is out of her face, Maka drags her feet into the kitchen, rinses her hands, and lets the sun in, drawing back the curtains.

The view is a little voyeuristic. She's got a direct shot at Kid's garden, and normally, on weekends, she'd finish up some dishes while absentmindedly checking up on him as he dotes on his vegetables. This morning, however, there seems to be decidedly less doting. And decidedly less Kid in the garden, period; he's nowhere to be found, and instead, she finds herself gawking as Soul plucks a tomato from the garden and bites into it, like some sort of neanderthal.

She squeaks. The window must be cracked, because he hears it and their eyes meet. He chews, swallows. Blinks impassively at her as she shakes her head.

"He will  _kill you_ ," she hisses. "That garden is his pride and joy."

Soul shrugs. "He hasn't noticed yet."

No, he thinks a deer has been snacking on his stash of fresh produce. Little does he know his mystery deer probably listens to Green Day and complains about the establishment. Maka shakes her damp hands off in the sink and makes haste out of the kitchen, ripping open the sliding glass door into the back yard. And, okay, despite her own opinions about him - rude, snarling, snarky - she still doesn't want to see a full blow-out this early in the morning, and if he's really that hard-pressed breakfast she'll give him a muffin or something.

He seems surprised at her presence, if his sudden defensive stance is any indication. "Easy there, QB," he says, dropping the tomato. "It's just a snack."

"What?"

Soul takes a step back. "Quarterback?"

That is a football term, she thinks. A position? The extent of her football knowledge is that there is  _tackling_  involved, and she grimaces in realization. She supposes she'd be nervous, too, if her first impression of him was akin to pro-wrestling. "Understood."

The poor tomato has been effectively demolished, between Soul's unusually sharp teeth and the resulting splat from the drop. Soul kicks it away, as if moving the evidence will somehow alleviate him of his crime. The deed has been done, though, and how can she remain a neutral third party when she's caught him red handed? The fool!

"If you were hungry, all you had to do was ask, you know," she says, rubbing her temples. "There is a kitchen inside. We could work something out. You don't have to go all woodland-creature on Kid's pride and joy."

Perhaps comparing him to a porcupine was not her brightest moment. He seems to take offense, and resumes his defensive stance, arms crossed over his chest, scowl melting into place. "I don't need help," he says. Strike one. "Especially not from you. Forget it. Not like I give a crap what that damn rat thinks anyway - he's so fucking spoiled he won't even notice the difference."

Maybe he won't put two and two together, but Kid is too notoriously particular about things to not notice when his garden has begun to thin out. Or become lopsided.

Maka sighs. "Would you just come inside, please? I was about to make myself some scrambled eggs before work anyway. I'll just make some extra and you can have some, too. You can't just live off of Kid's tomato plants, you'll need some protein in your diet eventually-"

"-What part about I don't need your help didn't you get?"

His stomach growls, and he pinks, very suddenly. Too suddenly for his facade of cool to catch up and blot out the color, so instead he stands there, shifting his weight from leg to leg, blushing like a damn fool.

If he thinks he will win a contest of stubbornness, he has another thing coming. Stubborn is her middle name.

.

Soul makes it a point to sit as far away from her as possible. If she didn't already know he was part cat, she might take offense to it - but it makes sense, in that strange, feline way, so she tries to think nothing of it and instead debates between offering him orange juice or milk.

The stereotypical part of her wants to offer him the milk. Cats always like a saucer of milk in stories, right? But they're lactose intolerant, and for as much as Maka wants to make this a peace offering, giving him the shits probably isn't the right way to his heart. There's always water, too, which is a safe bet, but she's often been called boring for her own personal water agenda. Does Soul even like orange juice? Should she run out and grab some of the apple variety instead?

How does one befriend a cat? Maka stands before the open fridge like a fool, jug of orange juice in hand.

"You're letting all the cool air out," Soul calls from behind her. The sound of his fork scraping across the plate draws her out of her debate, and she nudges the fridge shut with her hip. "Stein's a cheapskate and you'll never hear the end of it if you hike up the electricity bill."

Weirdly thoughtful of him. It is the sole deciding factor in Maka shutting the refrigerator and pouring him a glass of orange juice, like she's his mother or something. It's weirdly domestic, and Soul seems to shy away from her as she approaches, shoulders bunching up in defense. The expression on his face is almost comical, all parts cat-with-their-spine-in-the-air, and when Maka sets the glass back down on the table and takes her seat across from him, he finally slouches back over his plate.

His posture really is terrible. Maka clicks her tongue and picks up her fork. "You're welcome."

He doesn't say anything, merely playing with his food, refusing to meet her eye. "... Yeah. Whatever."

Strike two. She is gracious but not particularly patient, and perhaps the better qualities of a saint were never truly hers. Maka stuffs her own face with scrambled eggs to keep herself from snipping at him, because she is not his mother, despite corralling him inside and making him breakfast, and this disrespect isn't reserved only for her.

Which reminds her. Maka sets down her fork and stares at him, head on. "What do you have against Kid anyway?"

He chokes on his orange juice. "Huh?"

"I mean…" She shrugs. "Everytime you talk about him, it's like he's personally wronged you or something. Like… like he beat you up and stole your lunch money."

Soul scoffs. "You watch too many cartoons."

"I'm being serious! What's the story?"

He melts back into his seat. shoulders arching. Cats are supposed to be limber and flexible, but he grimaces as he moves, as if the very effort needed to shift positions is spectacularly taxing on him. "... What's it matter to you, anyway? Feeling sorry for me or something? 'Cuz I don't need pity, especially from some  _girl_ I've just met-"

It's incredible, how he manages to look both brooding and bitter with an orange-juice mustache. Maka chooses not to comment on it. "Why does it have to be pity? Maybe I'm concerned about some guy who seems dead-set on beating the stuffing out of my friend."

Soul rolls his eyes. Slides back in his chair in everything, one arm slung around the back of it. The picture of devil-may-care attitude and future spinal issues, and ooh, what a  _cool guy,_  this one is. "Ask the jackass yourself, then. He's told you the legend, hasn't he?"

"... You mean the curse?"

"Bingo," he says, rolling his neck. "Gotta be real hard for him, pfft.  _Curse._  He doesn't know the fucking half of it, spoiled little rich boy. Oh no, what a hard life he lives, celebrated rat of the zodiac. Everyone wants to be him. Cunning.  _Selfish_."

Maka blinks once, twice. Really sits and thinks on it, as Soul stares at her, for perhaps the first time since their  _meet-cute_ in her bedroom. He knocks back a long sip of orange juice as she finally puts two and two together. The  _rat tricked the cat_.

"You're jealous!" she says too brightly, clapping her hands together. "You wanted to attend the banquet too, and now you hold a grudge against him!"

Soul spit takes spectacularly.

"No?"

"Is that what you think this is? Jealousy?" He stands, all at once, hands on the table. Suddenly, that slouching, lazy bad boy is gone, and in his place is that stray cat from hours before, picking at a garden not his own for a bite to eat. There's a hardness in his expression, and it's almost accusatory, in the way he glares at her. "You really don't get it, do you?"

How can she, when no one will give her a straight answer on anything?  _Cursed_ is such a vague explanation _._ Yes, it is lonely to willfully distance oneself, to live in fear of others discovering their secret - but there's something more, brewing beneath Soul's stare. Something more, something bigger and scarier, and if Maka were any less stubborn, she might stand down.

But she's in too deep, now. Invested. And really, a cat person through and through.

"Then explain it, would you?" she asks, standing up, too. Maka mirrors his pose and slaps her own hands down on the table, too. If he wants to intimidate her, she won't give him the satisfaction. Not today, not ever. She is her mother's daughter, and afraid she is  _not_. "Stop being so cryptic over it!"

" _I'm not part of the zodiac!"_

The floorboards creak beneath her as she leans forward, rests more of her weight on her arms. "Your fur suggests otherwise."

He laughs, but it's humorless. Almost cruel. A lot sad. "As if that's what it takes to be a part of their exclusive little club. No, you really don't understand, do you? I know Kid read you the legend, he's so meticulous, probably wanted to paint himself in a good light - the rat tricked the cat and the cat missed the banquet. The cat's not included, brainiac. I'm  _lesser."_

Physically, he's not. He's lean, but still bulkier than Kid. Taller, too. She squints at him. "That's not a very nice thing to say about yourself at all."

"Yeah, well," he starts, then dropping down to sit, as if the weight of the argument has drained him physically. He looks older, in that moment, like maybe the white hair isn't just a  _statement_  and more a representation of himself, aged beyond his years. "It's the truth."

She is not equipped to handle such self loathing. Not while she's still so incapable of handling such bleakness in herself.

But it doesn't mean she can't try. If he can soften his edges and let the truth shine through, well, so can she.

"... What does it mean?"

He doesn't look up. Soul just sighs instead. "What?"

"Being the cat," she says, watching the way he fidgets, the way he tugs at the ends of his sleeves, shifting and squirming in his seat. "How is it different than Kid and Stein's curse?"

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "... They think I'm disgusting."

"Kid and Stein?"

"Everyone."

Such a harsh, blunt answer. Disgusting, she thinks, is pushing it. Sure, he's rude, and unrefined, and has terrible table manners, but disgusting he is not. A work in progress, sure. But nothing to throw in the towel over.

"I'm the scapegoat. They're all fucked up in the head too but it's all fine as long as there's someone else who has it worse. It's some real twisted hierarchy bullshit," he admits, and though there's resignation written in the crease between his brows, there's something else there, too. A fresh anger, white-hot, bubbling beneath the surface.

What a terrible fate, to resign himself to being angry all of the time. Angry and upset with the world around him, the role he'd been born to place. Like he's ever had a choice in the matter.

Maybe she's misreading. Maybe it's her own anger, blindsiding her.

"And Kid's alright with that?" Soul looks up as she shakes her head and makes her way over to him. "And Stein? They just- they sit by and let it happen?"

He regards her, in that same weary way he always has, but it's like he's peeking through the bricks of his wall. Like she's punctured a hole in his guard, and his real self has a chance to breathe. The first glimpse of the rainbow after the storm. "It's how things are," Soul admits. "How they've always been. They don't have a choice. I don't have a choice."

"That doesn't make it right!" she blurts. He sits straighter, brows furrowing more, more, as she sledgehammers forward, a one-way train speeding ever forward. "There's never an excuse for social oppression, that's just- that's just, like,  _textbook_  institutionalized-"

"Whoa,  _whoa!_ "

He's laughing.  _Laughing._

And smiling. Hell, she doesn't think she's ever seen him smile, and yet- yet here he is, laughing, waving his hands, shaking his head as she simmers, still, cut off mid-rant, as if it's completely natural for him to do so. As if it isn't a big 'ol first, an  _occasion_  itself.

"I really hit the nail on the head with that brainiac comment, didn't I?" he asks, and he's still chuckling, genuine humor bleeding through his taunts and jabs. It feels more conversational, now, and less like he's trying to scare her away. "Sheesh. You don't have shove so many big words into one sentence to get your point across, y'know. Sometimes less is more."

She doesn't know whether to blush or slap him. So she stews instead, crossing her arms over her chest. She's stolen his move, now, and he raises a brow, just as amused as before. "It's not right!"

But the tone has shifted already, despite her efforts. It's lighter, now. And Soul breathes easier as he leans back in his seat and shrugs those slouching shoulders of his, so she bites her tongue.

"It's the way things are," he says, again, and Maka digs her nails into her arms to keep herself from interrupting in another fit of righteous rage. "At least, for now, 'nyway-"

Her heart balloons with hope, ridiculously so. "For now?"

He shoots her a crooked, pointy grin. "God says if I can beat the rat in a fight, I'm allowed in. And then they'll have to stop treating me like half a person, right? I'll be one of them."

To be so invested, already, would be foolish. To allow herself to give so much to this cause, to this boy - and family - she's just met - well, she tries not to think what Mama would say about it. She cannot stray too far from the goal, her goals, cannot split herself in so many ways. To splinter off would be a sure-fire ticket to failure, and yet there's still an underlying determination in Soul, in the way he still grits his teeth and fights back, even in the face of hopelessness, that sparks something in her.

Admiration. Pity. Call it whatever. It's still contagious, and she thinks she understands this strange, angry boy a little more than she did twenty minutes ago.

Funny, how things like this work. Just ten minutes ago, she'd wanted to throttle him. Compassion is a vice, and Mama'd always said she was too soft for her own good, too much like her father in that regard.

Papa was a coward and ran with his tail between his legs. And Maka's no coward.

"How's your right hook?" she asks, then, resolution setting in deep. Soul gives a quiet 'huh' in question, and Maka smiles, then, just as fearlessly, just as sadly. "This quarterback thinks she can give you a tip or two."

And he smiles, too. Cautious at first, as he regards her, but when she doesn't falter, he gives in, too. And that admiration, pity, determination, whatever - it's still contagious, and he shakes his head, that laugh caught in his throat again.

"I kind of have this thing about girls," he admits.

"Look, whatever is going on between you and Kid, it's none of my business-"

He blushes, now. Violently. "NOT LIKE THAT. I meant- I meant I  _don't hit girls,_ God, what the fuck did you think I was talking about?"

Maka shrugs. Leans back to rest her weight against the counter behind her, hands pressed to the cool marble. It helps sate the itching in her blood. It's too easy, to bury herself in the issues of others, to throw herself headfirst into someone else's fire. Too easy, she thinks, and a bit potentially dangerous, to tangle herself up in problems, when she still can't face her own demons head on.

But it makes her feel productive. And useful. And maybe these hands will always yearn for duty, for something else to hold on her shoulders. It's easier than looking into the mirror. Always easier.

Soul scoffs. "If it was about that comment he made about dating women, come off it. It's not like that. I'm not like that. Not sure about him, but-"

"It really doesn't matter," she says, honestly. "It doesn't make a difference either way."

It might make things easier, actually, in the long run for her. It's not a fear of men that she harbors, not really - because she's  _not afraid,_  of anything, ever - but moreso a discomfort, really, around them. A lingering distrust. And if he's  _not interested in women,_ well, that would be just swell for her.

Soul stares at her. Fidgeting, still, and tugging at his sleeves, he says, a notch more quietly, "... Not interested in anything, really."

Yeah. She gets that, too. Probably too well.

"I thought this was about being too chicken to fight me?" she asks then, cheekily.

It's like she's lit the spark back under his ass, and Soul firecrackers to life, slamming a fist down on his lap. "I never said anything about being chicken, you cocky little-!"

"Won't tell Kid about the tomato if you can catch me!"

She's out the sliding glass door before he has a chance to holler after her. She thinks she hears bits and pieces of whatever he'd tried to say - a splutter, perhaps the tail end of "what the hell!" - but keeps going, sprinting down past the garden, back towards her old tentsite.

They'll need privacy, if they really want to get any training done. And something about the house just feels too stifling, right now. This whole hair-brained deal between them, however beneficial - it's still a temporary fix to the minor issue, Maka thinks, as Soul finally rounds the corner and she goes in for the kill, fist cocked, ready to strike: even if he's a part of their zodiac, he's still cursed.

Barefoot, Maka slips. And in the next flash of light, there are ripped jeans at her feet and a collared, glaring cat in her hands.

The whole lot of them, they're still  _cursed._


	5. grand theft autumn

Balancing both the cat and the rat is a delicate act.

She feels a little bit like Hannah Montana, with the way she's living a double life. Half of the time, she is Kid's friend and schoolmate, bonding over homework and afterschool studies, and the other half of the time she is Soul's sparring partner.

And although her friendship with the both of them is not a secret, it still feels a lot like walking on a tightrope, the way she has to ration her time between the two of them evenly, the way she tries very dearly not to speak too much of the other - it's almost exhausting. But they shouldn't be so sensitive! They're nearly grown ass men, she thinks, plopping down onto the couch next to Kid, bowl of popcorn in hand. And, okay, maybe Soul had been a little cryptic about how shunning the cat was just the way things were, but it still doesn't make it right, and she's still a little angry with her dear friend  _Kurtis_  for playing into that.

She shouldn't stick her nose in it. It is decidedly not her business. She should sit here on this couch, eat her popcorn and not think about googling the legend of the Chinese zodiac.

Maka sticks her nose in it anyway. "Have you heard from Soul lately?"

"No. I don't enjoy wasting my energy worrying about him." Primly, Kid wipes the butter from his fingers with a handkerchief and scoffs. "And I suggest you follow my lead. He has claws, you know."

All healthy cats have claws. Maka flicks a kernel at him. "That's no reason to shun him. He's a human, too. Not just a cat."

"I would really prefer not to talk about him, Maka. Please."

Unfair. Such information cannot be dandled so closely out of her reach. She's a know-it-all, doesn't he know. A bookish, bullheaded girl, who will stop at nothing to understand the world around her. To sit and allow herself to be ignorant is just not in her programming, not how she's hardwired.

She purses her lips. "I just don't think it's very fair.  _You_  wouldn't like it very much if people treated you that way."

The couch shifts beneath his weight, and as Kid shifts to cross one leg over the other, she knows she's failed this interrogation. They might be friends, but it's clear that that his walls, like Soul's, are still too towering for her to peek over.

If only she were a little taller. Maka sighs and sets the bowl of popcorn between them. Their friendship is still too new for her to feel right about prying further. It's not fair, she thinks, frustration tugging at her chest - nothing good might ever come easily, but it would go a lot more  _smoothly_  if someone would throw her a paddle or something.

.

"You really don't have to feed me scraps, you know," Soul says, absolutely chomping on the leftovers she's brought him.

Stubborn. Maka shakes her head and carefully sits beside him. His weird affinity for napping on the roof must be cat related, because while it's a prime stargazing spot, she is a mortal girl with breakable bones and definitely does not always land on her feet when she falls. Maka presses the palms of her hands down against the shingles to help keep her balance, and when she glances over to snark at Soul for being so damn contrary and  _eating her offered scraps_ anyway, he's got an eye on her.

He's stopped eating to watch her. Self consciously, Maka jerks her head and stares at the night sky overhead instead. "What?"

Soul clears his throat. "You looked unsteady. Wasn't sure if I was going to need to help you keep your balance or something."

"Do I look like a bull or something?"

He laughs at that. Continues to slurp the leftover spaghetti and shakes his head. "Nah. You're too scrawny to be a bull, that's for sure."

"Says the guy who calls me  _quarterback._ "

Soul still laughs, but it's more subdued, now. Awkward, even. "Yeah, whatever," he says, trailing off, and when Maka glances back over at him, he's twirling his fork in the tupperware container thoughtfully. "You don't look anything like our bull," he mutters, then. "You don't have the shoulders. Or the bulging biceps."

It's the first she's heard of the other members, so Maka mindfully tones her sass back down to a 4 and sits, slowly hugging her knees to her chest. For a while, there's silence, only the sound of Soul's fork scraping against the plastic bottom of his makeshift dish, and Maka rests her chin against her knees and lets out a slow breath.

The fall is cool, now. September has become October seemingly overnight, and with the goldening of the leaves comes the chill of the air. She shivers, huddling herself closer together, wishing she'd been smart enough to grab a hoodie before coming out to feed her new stray cat.

"Cold?"

Maka scoffs. "These bulging biceps keep themselves warm, thank you very much."

"You have noodle arms and you know it, pipsqueak."

These noodle arms have tackled him down more times than she can count on one hand. Maka sniffs, almost primly, and says, "I don't know why I bother feeding you when all you do is insult me. I should kick your butt."

" _Butt."_

"Would you rather I kick you in the  _nuts_ instead?"

He chokes on his spaghetti. "What, no," he huffs, "I was just-  _butt._  You can just say ass. I'm not gonna judge you for swearing, you know."

"Maybe I like not swearing."

"I think I've heard you swear before."

"You were definitely dreaming. I would never do such a thing."

He rolls his eyes and pops the cover back onto the (empty) tupperware container. "Sure, whatever you say," Soul says, before licking the leftover sauce off of his fork. It's the weirdest thing, watching him clean the fork with his tongue - it might be the most cat-like thing she's seen him do in a while, and it's almost mesmerizing, watching him meticulously get in between the rungs.

Cat tongues are rough. She's pet enough cats in her life to come to terms with such a funny little fact. But watching him, she can't help but wonder where the line between zodiac and human begins; he has the grace and demeanor of his animal, sure, but- well, his tongue is kind of long and really… talented. He has a surprising amount of control over it. Better control than she has over hers, for sure, and Maka can't discern if it's because he's part feline or if he's had more practice maneuvering his tongue around.

Aaaand she's staring at him. She realizes, when he looks up and their eyes meet, that she's very well been watching him make love to his fork.

"..." His tongue slides back between his lips. Pink lips. Not nearly as chapped as she'd imagined.

"-We have a dishwasher!" She splutters, breaking eye contact and looking anywhere else, instead. Like the sky. Yes, Maka will stargaze, instead of creepily watching her friend meticulously savor every last drop of pasta sauce. God, how is she the weird one here? "We have a dishwasher," she says again, more slowly, "you know. For cleaning dishes. You don't have to use your mouth."

She feels like such a little creep. And so unlike herself. Maka Albarn does not stare at boy's mouths and wonder how their tongues work! What would Mama say?!

It's sobering. Maka flops back.

"Sorry," he says, and she chances a look at him again. From this angle, he seems broader than before, shoulders and back and his mess of hair. "Thanks for the food. It's been a long time since I've had a homecooked meal."

She blinks, slowly. It should be darker outside. It's night time, but- hm, the stars are brighter than she'd anticipated. Stars and the outdoor lights, making the horizon beneath them seem to glow. It casts the strangest shadows on him, obstructs his face when he turns to look at her, too. How can she make heads or tails of the situation if she can't see his expression? If she can't see that crooked, sad smile on his face?

Maybe it's for the better. It'll just make her heart hurt more. Soul's said it before - he doesn't want her pity and she doesn't want to pity him either. He is boy first, before anything else. Real, flesh and  _boy_  - and cursed cat second, always.

"What do you like to eat?" she asks, then, and it's just light enough for her to watch his silhouette shrug. "I'll make you something you really like."

"You don't have to. Hell, you didn't even have to do this."

"We had leftovers."

"Maybe you should've eaten more yourself," he says, staring back at her, watching her as she bites her lip. He must be able to see her, she realizes. Must be able to see every bite of her lip, see the way her face must be on fire by now. "You're scrawny."

"Am not."

He lets out a short laugh. " _Noodle arms_."

It's too easy to fall back into their routine. He teases her and she gets too worked up over it. She whines and kicks and teases him right back and he acts all tough, like he hadn't just looked at her with those sad eyes. Like she's supposed to forget there's more to him than the angry punk with the fake nipple piercing.

But she can't forget. Not even if she tried.

.

Then, on Sunday, all hell breaks loose.

Such seems to be par for the course. Noise and general disarray tends to be the norm in this house, and Maka instinctually tunes it out with a pair of headphones popped in her ears as she does her chores. She thinks nothing of Stein, wheeling his way down the carpeted hall with considerable difficulty as Soul storms after him, because weirdness is so typical these days, in her life, and she kind of needs to get the dusting done before Kid gets home from the library and there just aren't enough hours in the day to try and deal with this particular brand of madness.

It's  _not her business,_  she reminds herself. Whatever it is, whatever Soul's upset about, whatever Stein's  _grinning_ about - not her business, not her problem. Even if anything that makes Stein smile like that is probably bad news.

Not her business.  _Not her business._

Even over the sound of her headphones, she can still hear Soul shouting _. Ugh._ Maka presses pause on her phone and bids a silent adieu to Ariana Grande. Guess it's about to be her business anyway.

"- Crazy, do you realize that?!"

"Now, now, letting the mind become stagnant is dangerous-"

Maybe she really does not want to know. Maka tucks her phone into her back pocket and heaves a sigh. Well, it's too late now anyway. It'll be hard to get any cleaning done with these two causing such a ruckus anyway; even beyond the noise, this bookworm is too curious for her own good.

"What's going on?" Maka asks, finally.

"Nothing!" Soul hisses.

Stein haults, only to swivel around to face her and continue grinning like a fiend. She's not really sure what to make of it; Soul's flustering is worrying enough, but that look on the dog's face - it spells bad news. "He's shy."

"I'm not  _shy._ "

Oh, Maka already knows he's shy. He's a cat, for goodness sake. Introversion is sort of a given, and added the surefire social anxiety that comes with his curse - it's a given.

She shifts her weight and crosses her arms over her chest. "Nope, that doesn't cut it. What's going on, Stein?"

The dog doesn't look very much like man's best friend right now. No, he looks far too devious, with the way his glasses atmospherically glint beneath the fluorescent lights. His smile tilts, far more crooked and wry than before, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he says, "I hope you'll be a good little student and show your new classmate around school, Maka."

"-I'm NOT going, I already told you-"

"But you've been registered for classes," Stein says, leaning down, resting his chin on his folded arms, pressed against the back of his computer chair. His brow raises, almost imperceptibly, just the faintest quirk of dusty gray. "Per Medusa's orders."

There is something in Stein's words that hold immense weight. Such weight bears Soul down, physically worsening that slouch of his, the slope of his shoulders, and he draws back, as if scolded. Which he isn't. No raised voice, no clear disappointment - Stein still wears that same unreadable pretension, his odd playfulness, but there's not exactly malice there. Certainly not anger. There's no real reason for the delivery to have impacted Soul so deeply.

Which means it's not the how. It's the why. Or the  _who._

"... Medusa?" Maka asks, glancing between the cat and the dog. "Like… from mythology? The gorgon?"

Neither of them crack. Immovable objects, the both of them, faced fearlessly against the unstoppable force - Maka's stubborn, stubborn attitude. Stein's chair creaks beneath his weight as he sits back up, and it's startling, how tall he is even while sitting.

"Ask Kid," Stein suggests.

Soul does crack a little at that, brows furrowing, a frustrating little mark wrinkling between them. " _Christ._ "

Stein tuts. "You start on Monday, Soul. She's given you an allowance for supplies, but you'll still have to find a way to make lunch work. I'd assume you're going to continue mulching off of our Maka's kindness, so I suppose that won't be much of a problem for you, will it?"

The guilt soaks into Soul's expression far too quickly. Maka will be having none of that, thank you very much. "It's not mulching off of me if I  _offer,_ " she insists, shooting their dear loyal  _pooch_  a sharp look. "There are always leftovers, anyways, and Kid's so  _particular_ about reheated food. At least if it's with Soul I know it's going to get eaten."

For his part, Soul seems caught between feeling guilty over taking advantage of her kindness or whatever guilt-tripping bull Stein is trying to spoon-feed him and offended over Maka insinuating that he is her own personal trash disposal. But it's not what she meant at all! Just that he's always happy to clean his plate, no matter the meal - pasta, meat, vegetables, cheap instant ramen - a happy, eager stomach with eyes. And she means that with utmost affection, so she offers him a placating smile and hopes it conveys her message.

He at least doesn't complain. She thinks he smiles, but it's more a begrudging grimace than anything else, and he instead redirects his ire back at Stein.

"Do I have to?"

Stein swivels in his chair merrily. "I did say per Medusa's orders, didn't I?"

He grits his teeth. "But do I  _have_  to?"

"I suppose it's your choice, isn't it?" Stein hums, slowly backtracking, nothing more than a creeping heap of legs and squeaky wheels straining against her freshly-vacuumed carpet. "But you best not bite the hand that feeds."

He's never so much as nipped her. What weird advice.

.

Sure enough, come Monday, Soul's standing outside their house with a scowl on his face and what looks to be a second-hand bookbag slung over one shoulder.

It's not as shocking for her as it is for Kid, who Stein must've elected to keep in the dark about the arrangement, because as he rounds the corner and finishes locking the door behind him, he meets the cat with carefully measured indifference. There is no human way Kid knows about the storm that is coming for him, not with the way he regards Soul so flippantly, as if he is a mere inconvenience and not his newest classmate.

"You're up early," Kid says flatly.

Soul offers Maka a quick half-wave and ignores Kid. "I rose with the sun," he says to her, very clearly displeased with everything in the world that has lead him to his moment. And come to think of it, she can't think of a time when she'd seen Soul out and about with the sun so bright.

"You're a cat, not a vampire."

"It's too early for higher brain function," Soul whines. The sun might be bright but his eyes are not. Between the smudged eyeliner and the bags beneath his lashes, his eyes might as well be bruised. "This is cruel and unusual."

"Sorry," she says, dropping a paper lunch bag in his hands. "Here. Peanutbutter and jelly."

Kid stands behind, squinting suspiciously between the two of them. Perhaps her quite accepting reaction to Soul, awake before noon, puts things into perspective for him, gives a reason to second-guess Soul toting a backpack around, albeit barely. It's still cracked open, not zipped all the way shut, and balanced so carelessly on his right shoulder - it's a wonder he's even wearing it at all. With any amount of weight, it'll fall right off.

"Would you wear that the right way?" she chides, then, taking the lunch bag from his hands and stuffing it into his bag. "No wonder you have such terrible posture, you're screwing up your back! Just wait until you have textbooks and stuff to carry around, mister!"

"It's cooler this way," he says, attempting to push her away. His longer arms only aid him so much, though, and Maka manages to worm her way around him and stuff his arm through the other strap of the bag. " _Ugh._ "

" _Textbooks?_ " Kid asks.

There's a sharp note in his tone.  _Well, here it goes,_ she thinks, already adopting a placating smile before she's even fully turned around. To say Soul hadn't taken the news well would be an understatement - he'd practically thrown a tantrum, whining and screaming and all - but his own begrudging acceptance had come only with knowing that it was ordered by Medusa, who- she's still fuzzy on those details, actually. And no amount of pestering Soul had given her any answers. Hell, every time she brought it up, he'd get this look on his face, like she could practically see the bricks of his walls falling into place.

"Kid," Maka starts, wisely soft. They'd patchworked a friendship together through kindness, mutual understanding, and if that is what it takes to get through to him, if it will save him headache in the long run - well, she has to give it a shot.

But Soul beats her to the punch.

"I won't get in your way, don't worry." His stare is even, unflinching. As if he hadn't spent the better half of the weekend locked in Maka's room, fidget cube in hand, staring at the wall as she'd done her nightly reading. "Don't want anything to do with you anyway, you damn rat."

Kid is no fool. She'd read about it, actually. Instinctive, witty, cautious - qualities of his cursed animal, qualities of him, and he puts two and two together with worrisome speed and his face screws together.

"No."

"Not like I  _want t_ o," Soul says, scoffing. "Do you think I want to spend my free time holed up in some stuffy building watching people fall all over you? Hard pass."

"Yet here you are!"

"Like I had a fucking choice. Shut the fuck up. This is worse for me than it is for you."

"Hey," Maka says, putting herself between them. "Easy on the swearing. That's inflammatory language."

Soul rolls his eyes and gently  _(gently!)_ slaps her hand away. "Oh, piss off, Maka."

It was not meant to hurt her, and it certainly hadn't - Soul is more hiss than bite, anyway - but it seems touching her, even to nudge her away, sparks something in Kid. He grabs her by the shoulder and tugs her back, effectively ruining the meatbag blockage she'd tried to embody, and barks, "Don't talk to her like that."

Brows raised, Soul says, "Christ, Kid."

"Don't talk to her like that," Kid says again, standing ramrod straight. It's funny, because Soul is definitely taller than he is, and broader, sure, but there's a certain intimidating grace to him. Pretty, slender shoulders, pale-white neck, firm set of his jaw - Maka silently adds  _protective_  to the rat's list of qualities. "And don't touch her, either. She didn't give you permission."

"I don't live here, genius," Soul says, those brows furrowing, now. "I  _nudged_ her."

"You eat her food, spend time in her room," Kid says, very pointedly. "So you'll have to follow the house rules, too. Do not touch her unless she gives you permission, do you understand me? And when you speak to her, you best use respectful language, too."

Soul scoffs and shoves him back. "Who died and made you king? Oh, wait. You were born into it, that's right."

" _Guys."_

It's funny. The first thing she notices is Stein, looking out the hallway window, crooked smile quirked, as Soul throws the first punch. Not his form, which she's been training him on, not Kid's immediate dodge and swift high kick, shojo legs slender and grimly effective. No, instead she stares at the man in the window, watching over the cursed boys who he lives with, adjusting his stupid glasses as they break out into a literal fist fight. As if it's  _entertaining,_  to watch the teenagers brawl, three steps outside of the house.

She's too young to be the adult. This is ridiculous.

.

"Let me get this straight," Liz says, screwing back the cap onto her bottle of nailpolish, "You have two boyfriends now?"

Maka wouldn't dare blush. She sighs, instead, and shakes her head, face planted in her hands miserably. "I don't even have  _one_  boyfriend," she says, peeking at her best friend through her fingers. Liz smiles at her. "They're my friends, and they're both very sweet in their own way, like individually, but together-"

"Maybe the punk's a werewolf," Liz says thoughtfully.

Were _cat_ , maybe. And those definitely don't exist. "Unlikely."

"I'm just saying," Liz starts, holding her nails close her face, blowing idly to help dry the dark red polish. "In Twilight, the werewolves and vampires were like, mortal enemies. Rivals. And since Kid is definitely distantly related to a Cullen-"

"-Liz, no, for the last time, he's not a vampire-"

"How do you know he's not? He stares at you enough. He's definitely thinking of sucking your pretty neck dry, missy."

Maka sputters. "I- my neck is  _not pretty._ "

Liz laughs and shakes her hand, still blow-drying her nails. "Sure it is," she says, smiling, now, more than before. More genuinely, anyway. Less playful, more honest. "You've got the neck of a swan. It's like, long and slender. A vampire's wet dream."

Thinking about Kid and wet dreams is uncomfortable. Maka doesn't like that one bit, and swats the thought away before it has time to really sit and marinate. She's pretty immune to these things, lingering thoughts on bodily fluids and sex and the likes - especially when it comes to boys she knows, boys she's friends with - but then there'd been that moment on the roof with Soul, caught a moment too long, watching his tongue, and now she doesn't know anymore. It'd been so unlike her.

She's not that kind of girl. Hell, it's beyond that; she's not that kind of person, period. It's not a matter of gender, or of girls being told that wanting sex and hungering for the physical form is unladylike and undesirable, because she couldn't give less of a damn about that. She's never given a damn about that, about being ladylike or whatever. Her sense of womanhood had been instilled by her mother, who was headstrong, outspoken, intimidating and powerful - and clearly had been tempted by the wiles of the  _flesh_  once, if Maka's um, entire existence is any evidence of that.

But it's easier, somehow, to come off of the thought of Kid's potential nocturnal emissions. Or… as easy as it normally is for her, anyway. Maybe Soul's mouth had been a fluke.

"Absolutely not," she says, then, still miserably. "Everything about me is pasty white."

"That is not untrue. Your stomach  _still_ hasn't seen the light of day."

"It's besides the point, anyway. Kid's not a vampire and Soul's not a werewolf, and they don't get along. But they're both my friends and I don't know what to do about it. It's like- I don't know how to get them to learn to put aside their differences."

"How did this even happen to you?" Liz asks, reaching for her nail polish again. "I thought you had a big ol' no boys rule. What, did Kid's debatable sexuality make you feel more comfortable around him or something?"

No. It'd been more than that. It'd been Kid, sitting alone at lunch, picking at barely-edible looking food, face looking sallow. Kid and the way he'd looked at her as she'd sat down, nearly in disbelief, without an ounce of ill intent in his eyes.

… And yeah, okay. Sure. Maybe Kid probably not being into her helped, too.

"I'm  _friendly_ ," Maka says, stubbornly, still peeking at her through the cracks between her fingers. "I have a no gross boys rule. Kid's not a gross boy."

"He has never had a girlfriend."

"I thought I was his girlfriend?" she asks, cheekily.

Liz laughs and holds her hand up, admiring the stain of red across her nails. "Our little nerd turns into a babe magnet. I'm so proud. I've raised you well."

They never get beyond that. How, Maka wonders, as she watches Liz begin applying the second coat of polish over her carefully-maintained nails, is she ever supposed to find a way for her boys to get along if she can't even discuss the reasons why in greater detail? Asking for help is out of the question; she can't even begin to explain it to Liz if she can't share the truth. Trying to cleanse the bad blood between vampires and werewolves would be vastly different than trying to mend the damage between cat and mouse. It's an endless chase, after all. Tale as old as time. The clever rat tricks the lonely cat.

Maka's not sure if she'll ever be properly equipped to tackle this one. Perhaps she's even more over her head than she'd thought, if this morning is any evidence. Maka glances over her shoulder to watch Soul slouch further in his seat, chin in his hand, staring out the window longingly, and in that moment, she sees the same loneliness in him that she'd seen in Kid.

Kid, who sits two seats away from her, has his nose buried in a book. At least, she thinks, sighing as she flips the page in her own book -  _at least_ he's not sporting a black eye like Soul is. At the very, very least, only one walked away with physical proof of the skirmish.

.

"SOUL. MY  _ **MAN.**_ "

The bellow echoes throughout the lunchroom. Which is laughable, because with the way Soul kicked and screamed at the prospect of attending school, Maka had definitely thought it was his shyness getting in the way of what should've been a drive for education. What was there to be afraid of if he'd already known somebody here? Like, aside from her and… Kid, obviously. While she can see the drawbacks about the Kid thing, at least she's nice! Really! And they're kinda-sorta friends, she thinks. He smiles at her, sometimes.

At least she thinks he smiles at her. Either he smiles at her or he's a baby experiencing gas.

But at the sound of his name being screamed across the hallway like some sort of mating call, Soul  _freezes_. It's almost like he's caught in a moment of time, one foot prepared to flight while the other ready to fight.

"Who's that?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder. Through the crowd of sleepy teenagers, a spike of blue hair surfs through, like some sort of over-gelled shark monster. She blinks once, twice. Sharks… aren't a part of the zodiac, so who-?

He grabs her shoulder. "Don't. Do not make eye contact. We need to go."

" _ **BRO!"**_

" _Now,"_  he grits through his teeth, tersely leading her through the ocean of students. It's weird, she notices, as she's watching him weave through pockets of jocks and drama students alike - he never once makes physical contact with anyone else, finds a way to slip through without breaking the touch barrier - but somewhere along the way his hand has slipped down from her shoulder, and his fingers link around her wrist warmly.

His hands are softer than she'd thought. What business does a punk have with baby soft skin? Where are the aforementioned claws?

He's broken the rule again, she thinks, watching his shoulders, now, as he tugs the janitor's closet open. Touched her without her permission, in the most platonic yet still desperate way possible. It's not like he's gone as far as to hold her hand - it seems that, still, is deemed strangely sacred to him, a boy with such a confusing relationship with physical contact - but dragging her along by her arm is still a-okay.

Well. As long as she's not body slamming him, it must be fine. And he's right; he doesn't live with them, not really. More like he naps on top of the roof of her room, sometimes pokes his head into her open window, sunburn warming his forehead, the tip of his nose. Always around, but never enough to call it home, it seems.

It makes her sad. She wonders, not for the first time, if he has anywhere else to call home. If the home of the rat is the closest thing he has to call such.

Soul shuts the closet door behind him and everything goes dark.

"Ah," he mutters, and she can hear his hand, grazing around the side of the wall, searching for the light switch. "Shit. Sorry-"

"It's fine," she whispers back, reaching overhead, instead, for a chain to pull. "Just- what's going on? I thought you didn't know anyone else here."

"Yeah, me too," he says, grimly. "Stein's a real bastard, not warning me about Star-"

" _Star?"_

As the light filters in behind him, Maka realizes that neither of them had found the light switch. No, as she backs up instinctively, watching Soul's eyes go as wide as dinner plates in fear, she feels it behind her, poking into the space right between her shoulder blades uncomfortably. But it doesn't matter now, she supposes, since the door has been ripped open and Soul's escape route effectively ruined. They're not hiding in the dark anymore.

They're also not alone anymore.

"That's the GREAT Black*Star to you, pleb!" bellows that same righteous, obnoxious voice. The fear on Soul's face melts into pure terror, and before he has the chance to turn and utilize that flight response again, there are two beefy arms lacing around him and then effectively squeezing the stuffing out of him. "MY BRO!"

Soul howls, kicking, somehow being lifted off of his feet, though it's clear that the great Black*Star is a good deal shorter than him. "RIBS, DUDE, C'MON-"

Maka stares, palms flat against the wall, as Black*Star - blue shark monster, mister biceps, he who has bathed in axe body spray and rips the sleeves off of his shirts - spins the cat around and  _cooes_. "I thought I'd never see you again! My main man! My big squeeze! Broseph!"

"DOWN, STAR."

One should never manhandle a cat. They are mysterious, prim creatures, and Soul's hair practically stands on end as Black*Star squeezes him again. Maka cringes from where she stands opposite them and decides then and there that perhaps it would be best to communicate with the beast, for her friend's sake.

Just… maybe once he's got her out of a corner. She's tough, but Maka's not sure she'd be able to make it out of that bearhug alive, either. She has bones, okay. Measly, snappable human bones, and Soul groans and melts to the floor as Black*Star finally releases him.

Then the beast sets his eyes on her. Quirks a bright teal brow. "... Is my man cheating on me?"

Maka gulps. One fear.


	6. my own worst enemy

Is this what it feels like to be the other woman?

Or… the  _woman,_ she supposes, as she presses her back against the closet wall and watches Black*Star approach. He might be a relatively short dude, but he's easily the beefiest human she's ever met. A complete opposite of Stein; equally as terrifying, just in a completely different way - forearms and biceps and pecs and God, even his  _neck_  looks strangely muscular. This dude lifts. He probably lifts Soul's jelly-legged body with one arm while reading the daily newspaper and watching Football. Probably slurps down protein shakes and egg shells for breakfast.

And she  _scoops._  Christ.

"Star," Soul groans, a withered pile on the floor. "C'mon, leave her be-"

"Is this your giiiiirlfriend?" he asks, a strange smile curling, his expression entirely terrifying. Maka gulps again and shimmies down the wall, so that the light switch won't press painfully into her spine anymore. Black*Star's attention never shifts, though, and he stalks his prey with utmost success. "My man didn't tell me he had a lady friend. Tiny lady friend."

Tiny! Just like that, Maka stops gawking at his muscles and instead glares at his stupid fat head. "I'm not that small!"

Very suddenly he is half the hulking muscle-man he once was and instead a snot-nosed, axe-bathing brat that really deserves a knuckle sandwich. It's sad, she thinks, balling up her fists at her sides, propping herself onto her toes in an attempt to tower over this blue-haired monster - it's sad, that this is the only friend of Soul's she's met thus far, because for as insufferable he is sometimes, he deserves better than this meathead. No good, grubby fuckboy, and if they're more than friends like Black*Star seems to infer, well - Soul can do better, she thinks, very passionately.  _Much better._

"You're like five foot nothing!" Star laughs boisterously. "Tiny!"

"Five foot two," she huffs, then plants her hands on her hips in silent challenge. "You're one to talk! You're like what, five five? That's not very tall either, buster!"

"It's not the size that matters at all," he says, then, and it's just as much a challenge as her power stance. "It's the motion of the ocean, baby."

Disgusting. Does he realize he's implying he is one walking, talking penis? No boy, just dick? "That's not… that's not what that means at all."

"Motion of the ocean," he says again, stubbornly, waggling his ridiculous blue eyebrows. She wonders, then, if Soul is part of some strange hair-dying cult, or if he only befriends others with ridiculous dye jobs. "Anyway! Broseph," he calls, glancing back at the heap of friend he'd left cowered on the janitor closet floor, "why didn't you tell me you've been hanging out with a girl? And here I was, thinking you'd never man up!"

Soul scowls on the floor, looking more cat than ever before, rubbing his jaw sorely. "I'm not your  _broseph,_ Star."

It seems he only hears what he wants. Black*Star ignores such technicalities and instead directs his uproarious attention back on Maka, and she's suddenly very aware that she's not the other woman in this situation at all; she can't be, not with the way Soul's friend(?) grins at her with such boyish, unbridled pride. If she were a homewrecker, he wouldn't be beaming at her like Soul had brought her home for Christmas dinner with the family.

Heck, she's not a homewrecker at all. She can't be! They're not  _together._  They've only been friends for a few weeks, for goodness' sake! Just what kind of girl does this beefcake take her for?

"A girlfriend," Black*Star mutters, entirely too delighted.

Well, now would be as good a time as any to speak up. "I'm Maka," she says, frowning, hands still very firmly placed on her hips, "Soul's friend."

"A girlfriend."

Selective hearing. Maka grits her teeth. "A friend who happens to be a girl, but not a  _girlfriend_."

Soul grunts and begins collecting himself. Pulls himself up from the floor and dusts off his black jeans. "Star, I've told you a thousand times, I don't want a girlfriend, Christ-"

"The great Black*Star knows his best brotato chip is head over heels for his mightiness, but this holiness is already spoken for, unfortunately. And while Tsubaki is down for some 3P action, it is always on her terms-"

"-No, no, no, you literally could not be more wrong-"

"-And I have to be the center of attention, got it?"

It's wildly uncomfortable, standing there and listening to the two of them bicker. Uncomfortable, because she's very sure she was never meant to hear that little tidbit of information, that this loud-mouthed, hairbrained Black*Star would be happy to be put between his girlfriend and the local stray cat. It seems Soul thinks the same, because he immediately pinks in the most adorable way, scowling all the same, those snowy brows of his furrowed. "God, Star, shut the fuck up!"

"Language," Maka hisses, without thinking about it.

Star throws his head back and laughs, as if she's said something actually funny. Which, she hasn't? She doesn't think she has, anyway; it's more routine for her than anything else, to reprimand Soul for his potty mouth, and certainly not a comedy act. Not purposefully, anyway. " _Girlfriend!_  That's it!"

Both she and Soul heave a heavy sigh. "Stubborn, isn't he?" Maka mutters, to which Soul nods grouchily, still rubbing his jaw. That pink still burns across his nose, over the softness of his cheeks, and it's still as adorable as it is hilariously unfortunate. "And here I was, thinking you were the roguish anti hero or something, but no. You're the  _sidekick_ to  _this guy._ "

_That_ was a joke, and Black*Star treats it as such. His laughter turns roaring, very quickly, and Soul aims his scowling ire at her, instead, as Black*Star slings an arm around her with a pinch too much gusto and ends up embracing her, in some sort of sideways bro hug full of pit stank.

There's a poof of smoke and Maka finds herself staring at a tiny blue piglet at her feet instead.

.

Well, it explains how they know each other.

Still not convinced that Soul isn't the deadpan sidekick of this tale, Maka manages to refrain from shouting only because she's been through this song and dance at least ten times now with Soul and jumps back. That light switch stabs her in the back, right smack-dab in the spine, and that  _does_  make her shout out.

"Careful," Soul says to her, sighing before collecting the oinking piglet into his arms with a great deal of resignation. "Jesus, Star, you know she's not part of the family, c'mon."

He snorts. "It was an accident, Broseidon."

"Yeah, well, now we're going to have to figure out a way to hide you until you turn back."

"Bite me, pussy."

She's not sure what's more tiring: their back-and-forth bickering, or the way everyone in this god-forsaken family keeps using pussy like it's some sort of insult. It teeters, sometimes, depending on the person, whether or not it's being used as an insult because it refers to his place in the zodiac or if they're leaning on the double-meaning and implying he's, um. Genitalia. In which case, they should unzip their pants and take a nice long gander down, because objectively speaking penises aren't exactly a sight for sore eyes either. They're called  _trouser snakes_  for a reason.

She should know. She's seen one now. Multiple times.

Not… to say Soul's is particularly unattractive or anything, she thinks, cringing then and there, trying hard not to allow herself to blush. She doesn't really have anything else to compare his to, and his is… genitalia, all the same.

Maka puts her face in her hands and  _sighs_. Never mind. This thought cannot be redeemed.

"Just let me walk around," Black*Star insists, nestling himself a bit too contentedly into Soul's embrace. "I'm cute. Bitches love piglets."

" _Language."_

"Oh, sure, we'll let you trot around like the prize family hog. Maybe we'll even show you off when you turn human again and you're kicked out of school for public indecency," Soul deadpans, expression impressively stone-cold, despite it all. Maka has a hard time imagining it without visibly souring and shuddering. She wonders, unfortunately, if Black*Star's carpet matches his drapes, too, and stops that thought, too, before it has the chance to steamroll right off the rails. "Think a little, asshole."

"At least let her hold me," Black*Star says, pouting. "Tits are more comfortable than your bony sternum."

Maka balks at that. "As if!"

The piglet is very cute indeed, but cuteness will only get him so far in life. It does not excuse him squirming around in Soul's arms to leer at her chest. "... On second thought, your girlfriend doesn't look much softer than you are-"

Soul does not reward bad behavior and drops him immediately. Star oinks as he hits the floor, Maka turns, and Soul clicks the lock on their way out.

.

"Look," Maka says as they shut the door behind them, "I know I had a lot to say about zoos being animal prisons, but I really think it's safer to keep him locked in there until he turns back. You know. To spare the general public from his pubes. And to help protect the family secret! It's for the greater good, just this once."

She's knocking out home runs, left and right. Soul laughs,  _actually_  laughs, full-bellied and all, and shakes his head. "Sure. Call it what you will, Albarn. I know the true depths of your evil."

"It's not evil!" she insists, elbowing him. "It's for the  _greater good,_  didn't you hear me? Liz is a hunter! She can smell nakedness from a mile away, and even she has taste, okay? I'm telling you right here, right now that she would report him so fast just because he doesn't trim. She has high standards and I don't have faith that he would pass."

That makes him choke. Soul pushes a hand through his hair and asks, incredulously, "How do you know if he trims or not?"

She fits him with a dry look. "Soul. He doesn't wear  _deodorant._ "

He throws his head back and laughs like a little kid. Something lightens in her chest, unbidden, and it's freeing, watching him allow himself to feel something other than careful, measured indifference. It makes her smile, too, despite the topic at hand, despite her best efforts to keep her expression comically dead. Soon, they're both grinning and giggling like school children, shaking their heads, and their knuckles brush as they turn to make their way towards the lunchroom.

But Maka wasn't lying when she said Liz was a hunter and sure enough, those blue eyes of hers are gunmetal, and stare between the two of them with laser precision. Shot through the heart, Maka halts, feeling guilty, oddly enough. For what? She hadn't done anything wrong! It really was for the greater good.

Soul tunes in to the shift in her mood almost instantaneously. He quirks a brow, glances at her, tucks that hand, swinging so dearly close to hers into his jeans pocket. "Feeling remorse?"

"No, it's-"

"You're team Jacob, are you?" Liz asks, very suddenly near. Maka jumps as her best friend slams a locker shut that is certainly not hers and leans an elbow on it, obviously trying very hard to appear cool and nonchalant. "Interesting. I wouldn't have guessed that about you."

"What," Soul blurts.

For goodness sake. There's no reason for Maka to feel as though she's trying to sneak a boy into her room past curfew. There's nothing to stain her hands red. She'd spent some time locking a pesky pig in a janitor's closet in order to prevent her schoolmates from having to stare at a bright blue treasure trail. Soul happened to be there. Or… Soul happened to be part of the drive by, a fellow victim in all of this madness, and they're friends, so it's fine if she walks to lunch with him by her side.

"I'm showing Soul around school," Maka says, still wrestling with the guilty  _something_ still attempting to tear through her chest like some sort of animal. Perhaps there is some merit to this zodiac stuff; she'd been born in the year of the dragon, and it certainly feels monstrous, this red-handed part of her, caught between the prison cell of her ribcage. "He's new."

"I'm aware," Liz says, brow raised suspiciously, chomping noisily on a wad of gum. "Teach wrote his name on the whiteboard and everything. Soul. Your second boyfriend?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," Maka says, for what feels like the fifth time today. Is it so strange for her to be friends with a boy? So out of character?

_Yes,_  she thinks, reasonably, as she crosses her arms over her chest. Of course it is; up until now, all of her closest friends have been of the female variety. Men were not to be trusted, according to Mama, and Maka was a good girl who listened to every bit of wisdom her mother had to share.

And  _ah._  Perhaps that's where this guilt is coming from. Maka toys with the feeling of it on her tongue, the old Mama damage, betraying her mother's advice, acting like a harlot and befriending so many boys. Moving in with  _men_. Putting her hummingbird heart in danger, despite knowing better, despite all the warning signs. Somewhere in heaven, Mama must be frowning down upon her, clicking her tongue in that stubborn, righteous way of hers.

Just the thought of her burns. Maka fiddles with the diamond ring on her finger and chews her lip.

Soul clears his throat. "Uh."

"Sorry, rude," Liz says, holding a hand out. Her nails glint blood-red in the hall light. "I haven't properly introduced myself yet. Liz Thompson, one half of Maka's two best friends."

He stares at her outstretched hand as if it were alien. "... Soul," he mutters, shrinking back. Between all of their good-natured joking and accidental brushing of fingers, Maka had forgotten what a confused relationship this cursed boy has with physical contact. He and Kid both, she thinks, and that guilt slams back full force, nearly crippling her. " _Uh."_

It's harder to breathe. She yearns for three minutes ago, when she wasn't immediately aware of her failures as a daughter and the dangers of the waters she now treads in. She jerks back, fiddling now more obsessively with the ring on her finger, rubbing a thumb across the diamond over and over again. It's bizarre, to feel so trapped by the feeling, so suffocated out of nowhere - Liz is playing with her, she  _knows_ that - but all at once it's so immediate and dire, thick like smog.

"Girls room," Maka squeaks, pushing past him, beelining for anywhere but here.

.

It's been half a year since Mama's death, and sometimes Maka wonders if she'll ever actually get over it.

Most of the time, she's fine. When she's not thinking about it, Maka thinks she's pretty good at maintaining a normal life. Or… normal for her anyway, these days. She does her homework and goes to school and maintains straight As, somehow, while also balancing a part time job and chores around the home. Most of the general public isn't aware that she's living without a proper guardian. And she's not even sleeping in a tent in the woods anymore! By all measures, she's doing better than she'd been even a month ago. To the naked eye, she's the same Maka she's always been. Studious, headstrong, nerd-brained Maka.

She locks the single-stall bathroom door behind her, cranks the faucet up and stares at her reflection.

The purpling under her eyes stains more deeply than it ever has before.  _Nightmares,_  she thinks, sighing, cupping her hands beneath the running water and then splashing it onto her face. The cold is shocking, sudden, and Maka tries to ground herself in the feeling. She sucks in a quick, shuddering breath, holds in all of the nasty self-deprecating thoughts left churning around her heart and releases, breathing out slowly, steadily.

Her reflection stares back, lashes misty, eyes fixated almost obsessively. Sometimes, she wishes her eyes were brown - sometimes,  _sometimes,_ she wishes she had more of her mother in her, had more of her mother than her slim frame and stubborn attitude. At least that way, she'd be able to hold that missing presence closer, hold tighter, if it was emblazoned on her own face, but instead she's left with these misplaced green eyes, the blonde hair of only god-knows-who, the undereye bags of an overworked teenager.

The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, she reminds herself. These physical traits, the skin in which she walks - she can cut her hair, paint her face, masquerade as a different girl, the spitting image of her late mother - but it's what's inside that counts, she thinks, with shaking hands and a stubborn set to her jaw.

Maybe it's for the better. Maka switches the water off and shakes her hands dry. Wearing her mother's skin might be harder to let go, in the long run. Where there is now a hollow yearning in her chest might instead rest something infinitely more haunting.

.

"You're going to burn dinner," Stein says, far too conversationally, as Maka very nearly dozes into the pot of boiling water.

She startles, jerking straight, arms flailing for a moment. The wooden spoon almost clips Stein's stupid crooked glasses, but he dodges, last second, far too agile for a mad scientist. "Ah-!"

"Good morning, Maka."

She assesses the situation. Water, boiling in the pot. Macaroni not yet in the boiling water. Dinner is not yet soiled. Realizes, then, that Stein is just being himself, an over-attentive asshole. Maka fixes him with such a sharp glare that it makes him quirk a crooked, terrible, little smile that only serves to frustrate her further.

"Dinner's not even cooking yet," she says, squinting suspiciously. "Go away. Stop begging for scraps, you damn mutt."

"Is that anyway to speak to your elders?" he asks, reaching into the cabinet and retrieving their manual can opener. He twists the handle, over and over again, as if it were some sort of makeshift fidget spinner. "I'm only trying to help."

"Water doesn't burn!" Twist, twist. Maka feels her brow twitch. "And would you put that away? It's not a toy!"

He does not obey her orders, and instead continues to twist the handle, as if he finds some sick pleasure in being so contrary. Which… would not surprise her, the more she thinks about it; which reminds her! Maka dumps the macaroni unceremoniously into the pot, turns to face him, brandishing the wooden spoon like a weapon, and demands, "Why didn't you warn Kid?!"

"I think you're going to have to be more specific."

Well, that doesn't make her feel any better about, like, anything. Maka shakes her makeshift weapon at him in an attempt to appear threatening and not like she's nearly two feet shorter than her opponent. "About Soul! And school this morning! You know the two of them get along like- like-"

He's getting far too much joy out of this. "Like a cat and mouse?"

_Groan_. "Don't do that. Why would you say that?"

"Because it's the truth," he says, nodding, still twisting the can opener like it's his god-given job or something. Maka considers slapping it out of his hands with her trusty spoon but thinks better of challenging someone with such long arms and instead shakes her head at him disapprovingly. "It wasn't my job to inform Kid of the arrangement as well. I was only instructed to tell Soul, and so I did as I was told. Otherwise, it's out of my hands."

"That's mean," she says, sensibly, turning back to use her weapon for its intended use and stir the macaroni around in the pot. "He could've used a heads up, you know. It's exhausting, trying to get the two of them to get along. Like oil and water."

"Cat and mouse," he chimes in again, grinning far too eagerly.

"Stop that." She really ought to flick him or something. "It wasn't funny the first time and it's not funny the second time, either."

"Their rivalry is none of my business, and I don't see the point in dirtying my hands in issues that are not my own." That's quitters talk, and also so frustratingly complicient that it makes her fingers itch, but Maka grinds her teeth together and says nothing, still stirring dinner. Stein hums thoughtfully and sets the can opener down, finally. "I'd think you'd agree, what, with the way you were so dead-set on trying to do everything by yourself, you know."

"That's  _different_ ," she says.

"Is it?" His fingers drum on the countertop, makes a broken rhythm with the bubbling of the boiling water. "I fail to see how."

It's  _different,_ she thinks, stirring more spitefully now, teeth grit, because it affects more than just her. Staying out of everyone's business, doing things on her own - it was self-sacrificing, done to avoid pulling anyone else into her dirty laundry, her own personal mess. It was to keep the skeletons in her closet locked up tight, to make her mother proud. A hardworking girl is a worthwhile girl, she'd always said, and Maka'd wanted so deeply to be someone worthwhile, more than just a footnote in the life of someone else.

It's different, because Soul and Kid's spats affect everyone around them. It's impossible for them not to. They're explosive, the both of them, when together, and it's maddening. The same loneliness follows both cat and rat like a shadow, bleak and haunting, but when placed face-to-face with one another it's just like fire and gasoline - they couldn't be more different. And to put the both of them at the forefront of all of those negative feelings, to force them to face those firecracker differences without any sort of warning…

It's cruel. Unjust. Unfair, to the both of them. And she's friends with them, now, despite her own efforts to remain out of everyone's hair. Their damage outweighs her own, and maybe it's a bit selfish of her, to bury herself in the troubles of others, in a half-baked effort to drown out her own noisy demons, but it's too late now. She's committed. Invested, even, in these silly boys and their spat, in this curse, in this strange, confusing family.

"Because they're my friends," she says, as if it will answer the whole question. As if it's actually an all-encompassing response, hah. "And I care about them. Is that wrong? To want to help?'

Stein drums his fingers. Such long, boney fingers he has. Maka finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eye. "How selfless," he says, then.

The steam makes her sweat. Maka rubs an eye with her free hand and turns her nerves to steel. "I just think you should have warned Kid first before letting him jump into the fire like that. All he needed was a heads up. It was cruel, to force him to go through that."

"The rat doesn't need protecting," Stein says, thoughtfully. "He doesn't want to be protected. He's asked several times to be left alone. I was merely adhering to his wishes."

"It's not protecting him, if you're warning him!" she snaps, and oh, some macaroni sloshes out of the pot and onto the stovetop in her temper. Simmer down, Albarn. "It's just being a decent human being! Letting him know what's coming!"

"Babying him."

"Why do you like to watch the world burn?!"

He doesn't respond right away to that one. Maka takes it as a victory - yes, she's done it, she's finally silenced his argument, she's right, she's gotten the last word - but her righteous triumph is disappointingly short lived. He looks at her, really looks at her, and such attention is unnerving, coming from him. Vaguely, she remembers her initial impression of him, the lumbering, monstrous b-movie villain, and when he's looking at her like that, like he's taking her apart with his eyes, she doesn't really think she'd been wrong at all.

It's invasive. She feels exposed, like those eyes can see more deeply than just the parts of herself she allows him to see. Like those broken, cracked glasses make his eyes substantially less naked, and maybe he can see beyond the feigned normalcy she's carefully constructed around the scared little girl kept caged, deep in her heart.

Maka doesn't like it one bit. She tenses, scooting away, holding the spoon closer to her chest. "Wh-what?"

He stares at her, still. Far too thoughtfully for comfort. Tilts his head and really  _looks_  at her. "Green eyes," he says, nonsensically.

She blinks nervously. "I- yes?"

"Very green eyes," he mutters. "Did you get those freckles from your mother?"

He might as well have shot her dead, right there, left her to bleed out on the kitchen floor. That gaping hole still hasn't been mended, and the child in her heart cries out, walls rapidly crumbling down around her. It's too much, certainly not a conversation to have over dinner. Or… over the stove, while she's still  _making_  dinner. "My… M-My mama?" she squeaks, feeling small and stupid. Where is that fighting spirit?! "What- I don't see what that has to do with anything-"

"Hm." Stein adjusts his glasses. Leans over and squints at her. "... Scottish blood? Irish?"

She sputters at that. "No, Mama was-  _is Japanese,_ " Maka says, voice cracking. "I'm Japanese. My name is  _Maka,_  Stein."

He chuckles at that, but it's not the same cruel, mischievous humor in his expression now. It's something much more curious, and Maka finds that it's twice as chilling. How strange, to wish he'd go back to being needlessly callous and drone on about not treating poor Kid with… well,  _kid gloves_. "And your last name?"

"I… don't see how that matters-"

" _Albarn?"_

Her blood runs cold. "... Did Kid tell you that?"

Stein leans back and adjusts his glasses. Smiles in that same dark, eerie way, and turns the dial on the stove down to medium heat, even as Maka's hands shake. "The end justifies the means," he says cryptically, standing at his full height, more impressively intimidating than ever before.

A family name means nothing, really, in the end. It's what she's always told herself - it meant nothing, and it was the only thing that allowed her to justify Mama not lending her own daughter her own surname and instead pegging Albarn onto her, like some sort of harsh branding. She was Maka Albarn, bastard child of Kami Susumu and mystery cheater, who'd moved on to the next flavor of the week before her mother had even given birth, and his last name held no power over her. It meant nothing. A name was a name. Something to call herself, she supposes.

But… still. She can't ever recall telling Stein her full name. She'd left it purposefully at Maka for a reason, and the way he's looking at her - and the way he's being purposefully cryptic about it - leaves a sour taste in her mouth. He knows more than he lets on, she thinks. Has a few too many cards up his sleeve.

Maka swallows thickly. "How do you know my last name?"

"You look like an Albarn," he says, then takes a few long strides and is already halfway out the door. "More Albarn than Susumu. Anyway, don't nap in the macaroni in cheese. Don't work so hard and maybe you'll be better rested."

The wooden spoon clanks as it hits the kitchen tile.

There's no way Kid could've told him Mama's last name. She was dead and buried months before Maka had even met him.

_The end justifies the means._  Fuck dinner; Maka turns on her heels and chases after him without a second thought, says to hell with rule number two and tackles him. He doesn't seem even remotely surprised by her sudden football-esque strategy, and looks down his snout at her, a lanky, patchwork dog with a magnificent snoot.

"You do realize I am faster as a dog," he says, very bored. "Four legs."

She had been sort of hoping he'd be tiny like Soul and Kid had been. And… proportionally, okay, this horse-dog is small in comparison to Stein's human body. But still far too large for her to reasonably restrain, unless she plans on riding him like a mighty steed into battle. But her hands are still shaking, mouth dry, and Maka can barely put a sentence together, never mind rationalize her fight response. "You- you shouldn't know that," she blurts, pointing at him accusingly, all twitches and hot tears, burning her eyes, blurring her vision. "There's no way you could know any of that, I haven't- I haven't even told Kid or  _Soul_ Mama's name, you shouldn't-!"

His macabre lab coat lays pooled around him as he sits and kicks a leg up to scratch the side of his face. "Hm."

"How do you know that," she finally blurts out, trembling all over. "You shouldn't know that! What, did you look at my files, when you registered Soul for classes? You're not- you are not my guardian, and they shouldn't allow you to do that, that is an invasion of privacy!"

"You are  _noisy_  like an Albarn, too," he notes, in that same bored tone.

"WHAT DOES THAT  _MEAN._ "

He doesn't have brows to raise in this form, but she can still feel the condescension, all the same.  _Asshole_. "It takes two bodies to consummate a relationship," he says, finally standing, staring her in the eye as she sits there, lip wobbling. "You didn't think your mother just split off a part of herself and made you, did you?"

No, of course not. But she's heard nothing good about her father, and every time Maka had tried to ask about him, she'd gotten the cold shoulder. By twelve, Maka had already learned to stop bothering to quell that hungry curiosity within her and keep quiet about it.

Stein continues. "An egg does not fertilize itself-"

" _I know that!"_

"-Then you should realize, of course, that you have a father." He tilts his head at her. "Have you never looked into your last name? I'm surprised she gave you his fake last name, really. Never pegged Kami as the type to reject a child so thoroughly. Then again, I never pegged Kami as the type to give into Spirit's seduction either."

_Spirit._  Maka tries grappling onto the name, but it slips off of her like water. It doesn't- she can't make it fit, no matter how she tries to spin it, how she tries to fit her tongue around the name. " _Who?"_

"Come, now, Maka," Stein says, sitting again, looking far too dignified for a mutt. "You're a smart girl. Your father. You didn't think you got those green eyes from your  _mother_ , did you?"

Spirit doesn't even sound remotely like a real name. Then again, neither does Soul or… or  _Black*Star._  And very suddenly, everything clicks into place, and Stein smiles at her through the smoke, sitting very nakedly in front of her.

"I don't understand," she says, shaking her head, staring at her hands. "I- you turn into a dog when you're embraced. You… you can't? How?"

Stein laughs, but there's humor this time in his tone, and the hall door creaks as Kid pokes his head out curiously, gawking at Stein's bare back and Maka's crumbled form. "Yes, well," Stein says, cracking his neck. He stands, grabbing his pants, and says, "Of course we have a way of continuing on the family line, Maka. Like most of us, Spirit doesn't always favor missionary. He'd run too high of a risk of accidentally  _slithering_ around her, ahem. If you know what I mean."

She's not sure she does. Or that she ever wants to. Stein slips his lab coat back over his shoulders and Maka looks up at him helplessly, feeling very much like the little girl she pretends not to be, waiting for Mama to come home and give her further instruction.

He sighs and lights a cigarette. "Your father's the snake. It was a pun. Really, would it kill you to laugh one of these times? I'm hilarious."

Stein takes a long drag and Maka feels the world tilt on its axis. Or maybe it's the force of Kid slamming the door behind him and storming down the hall to give Stein a piece of his mind. Either way, everything both suddenly makes sense and changes very rapidly, and from the kitchen, she hears Soul shout something about food being left on the burner. Time keeps moving around her, and Maka leans her head back against the hall wall with a despairing  _thud_ instead of acknowledging any of it.

Hell, she's part  _reptile_. Not even anything cute like a cat or a piglet. A damn  _snake_.


	7. the ghost of you

Maka's never had a father figure in her life.

For as long as she can remember, it'd just been Mama, working hard to put food on the table, working hard to keep a roof over their head. Mama, sacrificing her dreams and ambitions to take care of her plucky, tomboyish daughter, the one who would rather climb trees or read about Alexander the Great than attend ballet lessons. Sometimes, she wonders if she'd broken a piece of her mother's heart, when dance just hadn't been for her, when she hadn't been able to feel and understand the music the same way Mama had. Sometimes, sometimes, she worries Mama had never been proud of her at all.

But still, Mama had worked hard to make a good life for her. They didn't always have the time to spend together, what with Mama working two jobs, sometimes, and Maka attending after-school study sessions with her teachers, preparing for standardized tests and college prep. Still - they'd had each other, despite everything else. Even when Mama's presence was less maternal and more teacher than anything, she'd been there for her. And Maka had tried her best to return the favor, in any way she could.

There was no need for a man in their house. They just worked, the two of them, even if their last names didn't match, even if Maka didn't have her mother's long, dark hair. And now, to know that somewhere, out there, there was a man with her face - or, worse, that she had some man's eyes and nose and lips - it just doesn't sit right with her. It feels wrong.

She doesn't know what to make of any of it. It's too much to process, and so Maka dives into her after school shift the next day without waiting up for either Soul or Kid. It'd been hard, meeting either of their eyes after her near-meltdown the night before. Maybe after work, once she's exhausted herself taking orders and scooping, it'll be easier for her to simultaneously look them in the eye and face the music.

Sure, Kid hadn't been upset with her for nearly burning dinner. Of course, Kid had been more intent on scolding Stein for dropping that bomb on her without much prior warning, and yes, he'd been so apologetic, offering to help her up, had looked at her with concerned eyes and a frown on his face, but the worry had stung. Like a bee sting, straight to the heart, and Maka can't bear the pity. Not when Mama had passed away, and certainly not now. She'd been so rude, too! Slamming the door in his face, too afraid to let a friend see her cry.

She's practically an adult, anyway. Who needs a father? Who cares if she has one? It's not like he'd ever done anything to help raise her. He'd never even made an attempt to reach out once in her childhood. By all means, he's dead to her. A shadowed figure that never needed a name.

But now she has one, and she's not really sure what to do with the information. Should she continue her involvement with the family, it's likely she'll end up meeting him. Nearly inevitable. And Maka doesn't know how to support her boys while also subjecting herself to such a tumultuous truth without feeling bitter.

It makes her feel selfish. And she doesn't like that one bit.

.

"Late night?"

Maka looks up. One dangling combat boot sways in the night air, hanging off the roof, and she sighs and braces herself. Sitting atop the roof as if it's perfectly normal, Soul raises a brow at her, looking more like an aloof alley cat than he has any right to.

"... We had a couple in past closing," Maka lies, yawning. She scrubs her eyes, keeping them carefully aimed at her own feet. "Can I go to bed now, or are you going to interrogate me some more?"

Soul shrugs. "It's already way past your bedtime."

It's past his, too. Usually, by this hour, Soul's disappeared off to wherever he goes to sleep when he's not up pestering her, but instead he sits staring at her, a curious look in what little bits of his face she's allowed herself glimpses of. He's pulled a knee up to his chest, now, leaning an arm across it, resting his chin there too, gazing thoughtfully. In the moonlight, it almost blurs out the angry smudges of his eyeliner. Almost makes him look pretty.

He shouldn't be here. By now, she should be able to make it to her room without running the risk of a confrontation. Maka purses her lips. "Goodnight, then," she says, taking three steps toward the door.

There's a swear under his breath, and then the sound of the roof creaking beneath his weight, and then- then he's there, beside her, dusting off his knees, cracking his neck. "You're a bad liar, you know," he says, and that mischievous righteousness so present in Stein's voice is noticeably absent in Soul's.

"What?"

"You can't look at me," he says. He's right, of course, but it doesn't make her feel any less gross, and so Maka frowns at her feet and clenches the strap of her backpack in her hand instead of fighting him on it. She's a terrible liar, always has been, and now is not yet her time to blossom into a proper teenager, apparently. "Maka."

"I just want to go to bed, Soul," she says tightly. "I have homework I still need to get done, and I've been working all night, and I really don't want to have this conversation with you right now."

He shifts his weight. One boot scuffs against the ground awkwardly. So unlike him, to confront her like this; and how far they've come, she thinks, for him to accost her like this. Maybe she'd had him at first bodyslam, for them to have fallen into such a strange, patchwork friendship, for him to be bold enough to stand beside her and stare head-on without just opting to scowl and prance away, tail high in the air.

It manages to make her feel worse for avoiding him. Maka's shoulders tense.

A sigh, then. "Do they even charge you rent? You could just, like, work weekends or whatever. You look like death warmed over."

"You say the sweetest things sometimes."

"Funny." He cracks his neck, and Maka looks at his hands, instead, his shoulders. Anything but his face. Baby steps. "I don't care, you know."

"That I work all the time?"

She can tell by the corner of his mouth that he's frowning. "No. I care about that. You're crazy," he says, shortly. "I meant about… you know. Your dad."

Even mentioning it ties her stomach up in knots. Maka forces a long exhale through her nose. "Soul. Please?"

"We don't have to talk about it," he says, and shifts past her to crack the door open. "Cause I uh… I get it, I do. Family drama and stuff. We all have things we don't like to talk about around here, trust me."

Somehow, she's part of that we, she thinks, white-knuckling the strap of her bag. She's part of that we, part of that family, bizarrely, and those knots in her stomach tighten. "Please," she grits out, her voice higher than normal, frustratingly. She feels stupid and young, the little girl she shouldn't be anymore, grasping for her mother's ghostly hand. "I really, really-"

"You don't have to." Soul faces her. Maka blinks away her mother's ghost and looks him in the eye, finally, and there's such resolved, blatant sincerity that her heart clenches. "Didn't you hear me? It doesn't matter who the hell you come from, shit. Doesn't matter to me and it sure as fuck better not matter to Kid, even he's not that rude. What matters is who you are now. 'Cause you make the choices, not some shitty pervert who fucked and chucked your mom. Guys like that make me sick."

He tries to hold her gaze, but a moth seems far too intent on attacking the porch light, and Soul jerks away and the spell he'd cast her under breaks with her nerve. When he looks back at her, she knows she's finally cracked, and the tears feel therapeutic and hot, streaming down her cheeks.

He flails, adorably. "Shit, fuck, I didn't mean to-"

"Idiot!" she squeaks. He can't just go and be sweet like that and not expect to elicit a reaction out of her. Maka punches him lightly on the arm and he takes the hit like a champ, squawking, still flailing. " _Idiot!"_

"Sorry, I didn't-  _Christ,_ " he says, sighing, still unsure of what to do with his hands. "I'm no good with people. Especially girls."

 _Idiot_  seems to be the only word she can finagle her lips into making, so she shouts it again, scrubbing at her eyes stubbornly. She's supposed to be the collected one here, the one who leads and assists, the one who knows how to both throw a punch and make dinner without burning the house down. Soul has no right saying things to her like that, like a suckerpunch straight to the heart. Perhaps she's taught him too well too quickly, if he can disarm her with nothing more than a few heartfelt words and his awkward honesty.

His hand finds its place atop her head. He ruffles her hair, uselessly, clearly unsure. "... There there."

"I hate him," she blurts, finally, damply. "I hate him, I never even wanted to know who he was, and now-"

"You don't have to meet him," Soul says. "He's not all that great anyway. Dirty old man."

It's not exactly a balm to her freshly reopened wounds, but it helps anyway. Soul's hand rests on her head now, bigger than she'd realized, warmer than anything else. She chokes on her stupid, childish fears and takes a deep, cleansing breath, blinking up at him through the tears. It's blurry, but she can still make out the darkness of his eyes, burnished in the dim lighting. That moth circles his head still, but Soul doesn't attempt to swat it away this time, merely watching her as she sniffles and snivels, expression stoney.

Idiot. It'll fly up his nose and then she'll have to be the adult again and rescue him.

"I'm not embarrassed or anything," she says, stubbornly.

He snorts. His hand slips a little, instead cupping her temple, bangs tangled around his thumb. "'Course not. You? Never."

"Never ever." Sniffle. His hand's surrounding her ear, now, and it's weird, having half of her hearing muffled like that. The ocean inside her head rustles on, and Soul shakes his head. "It's past your bedtime. Scram."

"Hey! I don't have a bedtime, you brat," he says, so contrary, but his hand is still cupping her head, and it's as sweet as it is nerve wracking, now. Those knots become butterflies, fluttering around like they own the place. She takes comfort in it, the warmth of his palm, the way his fingers have accidentally combed through her hair.

"Do too. You have to get up for school now."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Soul!"

He laughs, and that moth finally hits its mark and flies right in his face. Predictably, he shrieks, flaps his hands at his face, turns and pushes the door open with his entire body. "WHU- OFF, fuck, christ, stupid bugs-!"

He's not exactly prince charming, but he'll do, Maka thinks, wiping her tears and scurrying after him to help rinse off the bug guts from his pretty nose.

.

It's like none of it ever happened. The next day, Soul and Kid fall back into their old habits, and when Maka makes her way into the kitchen that Saturday morning, they're bickering like two children who both want to play with the same toy but don't quite understand how to share yet. It's rowdy and loud and definitely the first time Maka's ever been happy to be woken up by one of their little spats.

"Good morning," she says, as Soul throws the salt shaker across the table at Kid. "How'd you sleep?"

"YOU'RE A WASTE OF SPACE."

"Well! At least I have space to take up!"

"That's good," Maka says mindlessly, swerving around them and picking up the plastic salt shaker from the floor. "Are you hungry?"

"I hate your stupid pretentious face," Soul says, pointing a long, elegant finger of his own at the pretty boy seated across from him. "Life's a lot tougher when you don't have eyelashes that'll let you get away with murder, you know."

"You're wasting hot air, going on about things you can't change." Kid says, ruthlessly. "I can't help the way I was born, Soul. Leave my eyelashes out of it! They've done absolutely nothing but help keep things out of my eyes."

Maka hums and opens the refrigerator. "Scrambled eggs, then?"

"Bull! People drool all over you," Soul snarls, standing, now, slamming his fists on the table. "You wouldn't survive a damn day in my shoes, you rat bastard!"

Kid sniffs, primly. "I'd certainly take a shower, that's for sure."

Soul roars and launches himself across the kitchen table. Or tries to, anyway. He vastly underestimates the distance it will take for him to slug Kid right in his allegedly pretty face and ruin those long, luscious lashes, and instead belly flops spectacularly. But a cat always lands on his feet, and true to form, Soul recovers with grace, practically hissing as he scrambles across the table toward his prey.

Kid sidesteps just as gracefully, and Soul fumbles for just a moment before he gains his footing and then he's on the ground again, too. "Still so slow, Evans."

"Shut your fucking face!" Soul grunts, then throws a punch correctly, Maka notes with what shouldn't be glee but sort of absolutely is.

Thankfully, Kid ducks and all of her hard work doesn't have a chance to land, but still - the effort is there, and Maka mentally gives him a solid B+ while setting her eggs on the counter and making her way over to break up the fight. It's such a direct 180 from the day before, when the house had been silent, and she'd been too afraid to say anything at all, lest she wake the dead and stir up the questions brewing in Kid's tense stare. She has to wonder, for a moment, if perhaps the fight is a bit performative, and if it's their intent to forcefully inject the house with a bit of normalcy via a battle, but then Kid lands an uppercut on Soul and the world continues turning, just as it should.

Kid fixes his hair and sighs. "You're still so predictable."

"Go choke on a big one," Soul growls, rubbing his jaw. "I hear Free's in town."

Now Kid's scowling, too. Allows his composure to shatter, just for a moment. "You're despicable."

"And you're an asshole!"

"You're both pretty," Maka blurts, pushing between them. She drops down to her knees and takes Soul's darn glass jaw in her hands. Apparently, her touch is not as meek as she'd intended, and Soul gasps as her fingers brush his skin skittishly. "Ouchies!"

"Don't say cutesy shit like that," Soul says, pouting, slapping her hands away. "It's weird. And I'm not pretty!"

"Soul."

"I'm cool as hell," he insists, sitting there on his butt on the kitchen floor, pouting like a five year old. "Get out of the way so I can smack that stupid look off of that rat's stupid face."

"If you say stupid one more time I'm going to have to get the squirt bottle."

"Don't you dare."

Kid does not smother his laughter. "She threatens you with a bit of water?"

"Can it!" Soul roars, making to tackle him. Wisely, Maka shoves his shoulders back, and Soul only pouts further, squirming like a cat forced into a Christmas costume and made to pose with the family dog. "She'd do it to you too if she knew how long you spend on your hair in the morning."

Kid pales. "You- you have no right, sir, you spend just as long as I do doing your  _makeup!_ "

"EYELINER LOOKS GOOD ON EVERYONE."

He's right. What he's not right about is Maka ever threatening Kid with the spray bottle. While Soul is… meticulous with his morning routines, Kid is a bit more extra. It's no secret that their rat takes great pride in his appearance and takes particular care with maintaining his princely appearance, but it's something more, to him, and Maka is not mean enough to ever use something like that against a friend.

It's different, with Soul. She dishes what she knows he can take. She'd never really punch him, never really hurt him, but a spritz of water when he's misbehaving, fine, sure. He tugs her pigtails sometimes when she's being stubborn. Fair's fair.

"You disgust me," Kid says.

"Take a look in the fucking mirror and get back to me with that one," Soul fires right back, leaning to glare at him around the wall Maka had attempted to build between them with her skinny legs. " _Sephora bag._ "

Kid's face goes pink. He doesn't erupt, though, quite like Soul might. No, they have their similarities, her boys - what, with their curse, with the way they hold themselves, despite the loneliness, despite the darkness that billows at their feet mysteriously like shadows - but they function differently. Process emotions differently. Where Soul scowls and glares and spits his venom in the form of icy words and misaimed punches, lashing out, Kid's face goes tight as he walks over to the sink, sticks his hand under the running water, walks back and flicks his damp fingers at Soul's face.

"Bad cat," he says, brows furrowed. "No supper."

True to form, Soul scrambles up to his feet and positively seethes. "You're gonna regret that, furball!"

"Take a look in the mirror," Kid fires right back, smiling wickedly, ominously. There's too much dark promise in that look of his, and Soul seems to agree, because he riots only further, balling up his hands into fists.

The relief has officially worn off. Clearly, she is dealing with children, and must treat these dumb boys as such in order to get through to them. Maka throws herself forward, hugs Soul, ignores his surprised, pink-faced gasp and carries the floundering kitty in her arms out of the kitchen, right past Kid's disgruntled self. "Alright! Time out!"

"Wh- HEY. MAKA. Don't fight dirty, you coward!"

"Shhhhh," she hushes, petting down the silky line of his back. "Naughty kitten, it is breakfast time."

.

She'd thought Soul's jab about this Free person was just that. A jab.

She was wrong. Twice as tall as Black*Star, and somehow twice as beefy, too, stands a hulking, muscled buffoon of a man, in cargo shorts and a too-tight turtleneck, like some sort of strange mishmash of summer and winter and intimidating, sweaty Man all rolled up into one. She half cowers behind the front door, gawking at the size of his biceps, partly in horror, partly in envy, because god, what she wouldn't give to be able to wreck stuff with arms like that.

"Hello," he says, very pleasantly. "Are you Maka Albarn?"

"... Yeeees?" Should she be? She's not so sure anymore. He seems pleasant enough, but he is literally the largest man she has ever seen, and judging by her luck these days, something terribly unusual is about to befall her. The universe has a funny way of screwing with her.

"Hello, Maka Albarn."

"... Hello."

"I've heard so much about you!" He's far too delighted. Maka scoots a smidge more behind the door. "May I come in?"

"How… what have you heard about me?"

Like Stein, Free has to duck to make it through the doorway. What a different life, she thinks, to be so obnoxiously tall; Maka has to stand on the tips of her toes to reach the chain for the ceiling fan, and this behemoth can't walk through doorways without bonking his head. He looks bizarre inside, shoulders too broad, calves too beefy and exposed, and it takes everything Maka has not to interrogate him on his fitness routine.

Instead, she pushes the question she literally just asked and he'd ignored. "What have you heard about me? From who?"

He blinks at her and nudges the door shut with his foot. "Is Kid home?"

"He-  _Hey!_ " Maka stomps after him like an angry toddler as he continues to ignore her and trots down the hallway with thunderous steps. "He's out book shopping, but that's beside the point- how do you know about me?"

Free has to exit the narrow hallway and enter the living room in order to properly turn to face her. And oh, wow. He's a big guy. She'd known he was big this whole time, but seeing him now, in an enclosed space, she fears for the top of his head; the swinging ceiling fan is coming awfully close to giving him an impromptu, dusty haircut.

He tugs at his turtleneck and blinks at her. "Lady Medusa."

Medusa. Still a name shrouded in such mystery; Maka makes a mental note to question Kid further. "Who?"

"The boss lady!" Free laughs and puts his hands on his hips. "I hear Soul's staying here now too?"

How does he know these things. Has she not been cleaning the house thoroughly enough? Are there hidden cameras beneath the couch? Is this an episode of Punk'd? Big Brother?

"... He has dinner with us sometimes," Maka says, shooting a suspicious look over her shoulder. Well, nothing looks out of the ordinary. "How did you know that?"

Free doesn't even blink this time. "Lady Medusa."

" _Who."_

Her question prompts him to tilt his head at her. "So Kid hasn't told you."

"Told me what?"

Free kicks off his shoes and makes himself comfortable on the loveseat. He takes up the entire two-seater by himself, and Maka lingers in the entryway of the living room, unsure of whether or not she should hear him out. Clearly, he knows something she doesn't -  _something Kid should've told her_  - and the nosy, stubborn part of her wants to sit down and listen, more than anything else. There's still clearly so much she doesn't know about this family, the house in which she lives, and to be so wildly ill-prepared and uninformed leaves her feeling on edge. Like she should start sleeping with one eye open.

But then she thinks of Soul, moths swarming his bleached-white hair, looking solemn and tired.  _We all have things we don't like to talk about around here._

Maka clenches the hem of her sleeves between her fingers and sucks in a breath. What a precarious line she walks - should she stay and listen? She will finally learn more about this mysterious Medusa, the only reason why Soul sucked it up and attended their school in the end. The burning curiosity in her is nearly unbearable. She wants to know, more than she can put into words, why this Medusa held such power over him, over Stein, even. And it's clear that Free's surprised she doesn't already know.

But at the same time, if she stays, won't it be a breach of their privacy? Neither Soul nor Kid had pushed the subject of her father issues.

It's foolish to jump into battle unarmed. Mama would want her to stay and listen. Maka bites back her guilt and instead embraces her interest and takes her seat on the corner of the coffee table.

"Told me what?" Maka asks again, swallowing her fear, steels herself for the worst. "Who's Medusa?"

"God," he says, as if it's obvious. "She's part of the family. The boss lady herself."

It would be an inopportune time to mention that she's not a particularly religious girl. "Oh."

Free must sense the emptiness in her sigh. "God held a banquet for all of the animals. Kid showed you the picture book, right?"

"... Yes."

"I like that book. It's a handy book. Really helped me when I was a squirt, too." She is not a squirt, but, okay. Maka bites her lip as he continues. "She's in charge. What she says goes. We're bound to her word."

Bound to her word. Which means- "She's the reason why Soul and Kid don't get along?"

"We do what she says. She knows best. She's smart like that," Free says, but his words don't quite reach his eyes. "She protects us and our secret. Without her, we wouldn't have a purpose."

His expression is much too jolly for the topic at hand. There's more to it, she knows there is - for Kid, someone so notoriously thorough, to leave such an integral part of the explanation out is suspicious. The crooked smile on Free's face leaves a sour taste in her mouth, though Maka can't put a finger on why. There's something misplaced about it, his joyous, blase disregard as he speaks of someone who holds such power over him. It doesn't sit right with her at all.

Ever outspoken, Maka can't keep her big mouth shut. "I don't see how forcing a rivalry between two teenagers helps protect anyone. It just seems cruel to me."

"Tale as old as time," Free sing-songs, fishing out a snack-sized bag of Cheetos out of his cargo shorts. "Song as old as rhyme~"

No. She refuses to accept it. Maka presses her palms flat to her lap and leans forward. "That doesn't excuse it! They're- Soul's miserable, you know! He doesn't say it, and he tries to pretend like none of it matters to him because he's a big stubborn idiot, but- he's lonely! Why else would he be trying so hard to defeat Kid? He wants to be a part of the family!"

The bag crinkles awkward between Free's thick fingers. "The cat's always been a bit of a hothead."

"Kid's no better, you know!" She thinks of him, sitting alone at lunch, cutting his spaghetti into tiny pieces. Thinks of his face when she'd held out a pinky, eyes so wide, so purely surprised, delightfully so, and her heart clenches. "It's unfair!"

He chuckles and finally pops the bag open. "You know, he begged Lady Medusa to let him attend public school. Most of the rest of us attended all-boys academies or private schools because the risk of outing ourselves as cursed was too much. And she let him, didn't she?"

She's not following. "Yes?"

"She let you stay, too." Free crunches on a Cheeto without mouth open. It stains his chapped lips faux-cheese orange. "Usually when someone accidentally finds out, she works her weird magic and convinces Mira to erase their memories, but-"

"Erase their memories?" Maka squeaks.

Crunch crunch. "People find out all the time! Spirit and Black*Star aren't sneaky."

Well, there's that stinging again. Maka clenches the fabric of her skirt like a lifeline and says, perhaps too sharply, "That's not fair at all!"

Free shrugs and sucks off the questionable cheese powder from his fingertips. "When's Kid getting home?"

For his sake, she hopes he stays out longer. Maka still has so many questions, and if this is some sort of sore subject for him, she doesn't want him around to hear this. At this point, she is a freight train, and no force imaginable could possibly stop her from interrogating the everloving hell out of Free. Not now that her curiosity is finally being sated. No, there's too much at stake, now. There's more to this story than she'd originally been informed of, more sides to consider, more forces pulling the strings than just some screwed-up martyr system designed to condemn Soul.

"She has  _memories wiped?!_ "

He nods. Stuffs his fingers back into the bag to fish out more Cheetos. "Kid should'a told you. He was supposed to. Lady Medusa likes her people to know how gracious she's been."

 _Her people._  Maka grits her teeth. "I'm not one of you. She doesn't have any power over me."

Free stops his rustling. "... Maybe you should meet her sometime."

If she has anything to do with the way Soul's treated, Maka would love to give her a piece of her mind. Also her fist. Stubbornly, she crosses her arms over her chest, stares down the hall and says, "I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Afraid?"

Not on her life. "I'm their friend, you know," she says. "I just want them to be happy."

He's still not searching for crumbs again. "We don't really have friends."

Maka looks to him, then, and is surprised to find that he's smiling no longer. Instead, there's a sort of numbing sadness on his face, a begrudging defeat.

"... Maybe you don't, but they do," she says, fingers tight around her arms, pressing tightly enough to leave tiny white dips in her already pale, freckled skin. "I'm their friend, no matter what any God says. I want them to be happy."

He eyes her. Fits her with such an even, leveling stare that it feels like a challenge. And never one to cower away, Maka stares back, head on.

Then, he crushes the bag in his hand and breaks eye contact to attempt to basket-toss it into the garbage. "I've always wanted a friend."

Maybe this is the role she plays, now. Maka, friend of cursed men, breaker of her mother's ghostly heart. She's changing everyday, it seems, and it's Soul's dark eyes she thinks of, watching her from his perch atop the roof that gives her the courage to look at this cheesy-fingers man before her and say, "I'll be your friend, then."

He raises his brows. That weird tattoo atop the right brow goes with it. "You're like, fourteen years old."

" _Seventeen!"_

Free snorts and reaches a large, terrifying hand forward to ruffle her hair. "I'll take you up on that offer when you're an adult. 'Sides, I have Eruka to keep me company. And Kid!"

Maka literally cannot imagine slender, pretty Kid and beefcake, orange-fingered Free in the same room like, ever. If he's the closest thing Free has to a friend, well, maybe he should take her up on her offer anyway.

 _Besides_. "Kid's sixteen! I'm older than he is!"

"I am indebted to him," Free says, shrugging. "The rat's my dude."

His  _dude._

Free laughs and bumps her chin up with a brush of his knuckles. "You'll catch flies if you let your mouth hang open like that, pipsqueak! I'm gonna take a nap. Wake me up when Kid gets home, okay? I come bearing gifts. Also orders. And it was a long walk and my feet are tired."

He doesn't even ask. Just stands up, stretches, cracks that massive back of his and then scratches his butt as he marches right down the hall and into Kid's bedroom without further conversation. And just like that, Maka's left alone, gawking down the hallway, still confused and feeling a lot like she'd been struck by an information drive by.

She tightens her crooked pigtail and thunders down the hall. Rips her bedroom window open, sticks her head out and shouts, " _ **CAT!"**_


	8. the good, the bad and the dirty

Soul's snoring is fake. Maka grabs his boot and yanks it off his foot. "HEY."

"WHAT.  _What,_  Maka," Soul says, groaning, climbing to hang his head upside down. He looks silly, fluffy hair curtaining around his face, sleepy eyes grumpy - like some sort of disgruntled cloud man. "I was  _napping,_ you know. That thing humans do when they're tired of getting up at six in the morning everyday."

"Liar. Free's here."

"Told you he was in town."

"He's in Kid's bed."

"Will he fit?"

Maka pinches his nose and he squawks, wobbles, then grips the ridge of the roof before flipping down and landing, sure as hell, on his feet. Stupid feline grace, Maka thinks jealously, grappling for his flannel and yanking him toward her open window, ignoring the way he yelps and grabs at her, too.

"You don't have to be so rough," he grunts, squeezing her wrists. "You could just ask me to come closer-"

"You didn't tell me about Medusa." It is not a question. Neither is Soul's rapidly souring expression, or the way his brows furrow and his grip on her loosens. In fact, it may be more telling than anything he could possibly say to her.

He shakes his head slowly. "... Kid didn't?"

"No."

His adam's apple bobs as he swallows. She stares, only for a moment, before the fire in her veins burns too hot and she shakes him, instead, just a little. Only enough to really get his attention, she tells herself, as if she isn't already tugging him forward. There's a wall between them and only a window to speak through, and Soul slaps her hands away and leans through it, blanketing his arms over the windowsill and leaning forward, head poking inside.

She needs more, though. "Neither of you told me about her."

"Hey," he says, frowning at her, "I thought Kid already covered the bases. By the time we started talking, you already knew my secret."

"But-!"

"Also you have a habit of manhandling me," Soul adds. "You like carrying me around as a cat and rubbing my stomach. You already know too much."

Knowing that he is a funny little kitty that likes tummy rubs is not the same thing at all, and he knows it. Maka flicks his forehead. "That's not fair!"

"Ow!" he whines, waving her hand off. "See? Manhandling. You don't bully Kid the same way you bully me."

Kid does not elicit the same response out of her. They're equally as annoying, these two - and apparently equally as secretive. The frustration burns her, brews the fire within, and Maka tugs on her pigtails and groans. "I wish I would've known! That's a big thing to not tell me, you know! I feel like a fool, thinking they were just being mean to you for the hell of it-"

"-They have literally always been mean to me and they always will, come off it-"

"It's not  _fair,_ Soul," she says, throwing her hands down at her sides. "How can you not get it?!"

He shrugs, tilts his head, and looks at her all moony-eyed, and sometimes she really wishes he'd quit that. He has a habit of watching her beneath those moonlight lashes, choosing his words carefully, observing her reactions before reacting himself. It makes her self conscious, sometimes. Certainly makes her feel like she's been placed beneath a microscope, and she burns, burns.

"You're the one who doesn't get it, you know." He hangs his arms inside instead, elbows-deep, and that black and red beaded bracelet he seems to always wear dangles beneath the hem of his wrinkled sleeves. "Most people are afraid of me."

"You don't need to be declawed to be a good cat," Maka says stubbornly.

It startles a laugh out of him. "Cute. But not what I meant. I'm bad luck."

"You are the furthest thing from a black cat, but nice try."

"Still dark and mysterious, though," he insists, wearing his best brooding frown, and Maka would laugh, if she still weren't so steamed over the whole Medusa thing. "Anyway, Kid probably didn't tell you because he wanted to protect you from the truth or something noble like that. He's got a hero complex. Comes with the territory. He's high and mighty even when he doesn't need to be."

Hero complex. Maka might actually laugh after all; has he seen her, lately? "But I still deserve to know!"

He shrugs again. "We all have things we don't want to talk about."

"She could have had my memory wiped!" she blurts, furiously. "That's- it's just- I care about you two idiots, you know! I want you guys to be happy, but I can't- I can't do anything to help if you won't be honest with me!"

"He didn't  _lie_."

"He didn't tell the whole truth, either!"

Soul sighs and cracks his neck. "You're so black and white sometimes. Look. I don't give a damn about that rat, but I understand the way his brain works. Kid's got his own tragic backstory, okay, and sometimes it's better to leave it alone. He's private about that stuff."

So secretive. And she understands that, she does - she brings her hand to her chest, mindlessly, and brushes her thumb over the band across her finger, her mother's ring, the only thing she'd allowed herself to keep from her past. There are nicer ways to put it than tragic backstories, but still, she gets it. Skeletons in his closet, monsters beneath his bed, things like that - things Maka certainly understands.

Still, though. "I wish he trusted me enough to tell me himself," she admits, deflating.

Soul watches her hands with curious interest. "... You'd just met him."

"But he didn't tell me even after. We have dinner together every night. He studies with me. I- he-"

"He probably didn't want you to think of him any differently," Soul says, and it's so sensible and frank that she nearly double takes. Sometimes, between all of his dramatics, his grumbling and eye rolling, she forgets about his sensibility, his honesty. "It's not cool to be a cry for help, y'know. Kid's always been stubborn like that. Wants everyone to think he's got it covered, even when he doesn't. It pisses me off."

She squints at him. "... You'd do the same." Stupid, stubborn boys, trying to shoulder all of this pain and heartache themselves. When had she ever said they'd need to be martyrs for her? "Friendship is a two way street, you know. I want to help with things. It's what friends are for! I'm not just in this for the free bed and heat."

"I don't talk to anyone about my shit." Soul stares right back at her, unblinking. "It's nobody's business but my own. Kid gets that. I thought you did, too."

"Mama is not the same thing!" Not in the slightest; her demons don't walk the halls, don't pull the strings. Her demons sing swan songs from the grave, not a tangible threat she can fight. This, though;  _this_ is flesh and bone, something Maka can rally against.  _This_ is what she knows. "I want to help. I want to be there for you two, but I can't if you don't let me in! I wish he would've told me."

He still doesn't blink. Doesn't even falter, just sighs and says, wearily, "You haven't told him everything either, you know. Fair's fair. How's anyone supposed to open up to you if you don't do the same?"

Because feeling exposed makes her feel vulnerable, and she is a filthy hypocrite. The rug's been ripped out from beneath her feet, but Maka refuses to back down. She balks. "Mama can't  _erase your memories,_  Soul."

His brows raise, just a hitch. "You should be having this conversation with Kid, not me."

But he'd kept quiet about it, too. Had seen her questioning face that day Stein had broken the news to him that he'd be attending school and still kept her in the dark, and maybe it's unreasonable for her to feel so betrayed, but she can't help it. Maybe it's the bitter rage that knowing there was someone that they worshipped so willingly continued instilling a broken system that blinded her. What  _God_ forces their followers to alienate one of their own?

"Kid is not home," Maka says, very sternly. "And the same goes for you. I want to hear about the things that upset you. The way Free talked about her, it was like- like there was more to it than he let on. Like she wasn't just this… this person that called the shots."

His expression cracks, finally, and morphs into something irritatingly more unreadable. She's not sure what to make of this, either, but he sighs, then, and runs a hand through his hair. "Don't stick your nose in it, Maka. Kid wouldn't want you to get involved. He was trying to protect you."

Hasn't he figured it out by now? Maka hates being babied, hates being protected, hates having to depend on anyone else. She's an  _independent woman,_  and Destiny's Child would be proud, she thinks, of the way she plants her hands on her slim hips and says, "I don't need him protecting me! And I don't need you protecting me either, okay?!"

Soul's lips press together. "Again. Have this conversation with that rat, not me. I'll be out of your hair if you want me to be."

He turns and climbs back out the window. Maka feels her face flare up with heat and gasps, " _That's not what I meant!_ ", but Soul's out the window and crawling his way back up onto the roof before she has the chance to grapple for the one boot that remains.

 _Stupid feline grace,_ she thinks again, shivering at the breeze that brushes through the open window. When Soul's frowning face doesn't pop back down to continue bickering, Maka sighs and tugs down the screen, heart uncomfortably lodged somewhere in her stomach.

.

Kid somehow senses her before he sees her.

He spins around in the hall, three steps from his bedroom door, arms comically full of books. From where she stands, peeking through her the crack of her own bedroom door, Maka cringes, inwardly horrified at her own lack of stealth or tact, as Kid asks, "Hello?"

Busted. Well. She'd wanted to talk to him anyway. Perhaps it would be better to do so before he's discovered the beefcake resting in his bed. Kid's so particular about his personal space, and while part of it is certainly due to his tendency to become furry and whiskered when surrounded by arms of the non-male flavor, some of it still comes with this princely primness that he seems to favor.

Besides, Maka's not convinced Free had actually fit on Kid's bed. And if his bed frame is broken, well. She's not really sure how he'll take it. "... Can we talk?"

He smiles politely. "Is that all? Of course. I'll just put my things down-"

"Wait!" Maka yelps. Kid waffles there for a moment, entirely caught off guard. "... Yes. I mean. Um, you can set them down in the kitchen? Are those books on gardening?"

Kid blushes, just a little. It is very adorable and somehow does nothing to quell her nerves. "Yes?"

"I'd like to help you with that," she blurts. And okay, it's an excuse, but it's not untrue - she  _wants_  to share things with him, wants to be able to spend time with him, too, and embracing his hobbies is a great way to do that. Plus she's curious, and there's no better way to learn about him than to spend time with him while he does things that he loves.

Either way, it makes him smile. Not the same careful smile he'd given her only moments before. This time, there's a brightness he can't hide, a particularly eager quirk to his lips. "Oh. Alright."

To know she's about to crush that eager-hearted smile makes her feel all sorts of guilty. Still, though, Maka takes some of the books off of his hands and leads him into the kitchen, and he follows behind faithfully, a mindful three steps behind her the entire way. When she sets her armful of books down on the table, he follows suit, and when she turns to face him, he's still smiling at her in that heartbreaking way.

But she still deserves to know. And she deserves to hear it from him, too. "Why didn't you tell me about Medusa?"

Crestfallen doesn't even begin to cover it. He wilts and quietly asks, "Excuse me?"

Friendship is about honesty, Maka tells herself.  _Emotional_ honesty, which has  _never_  been easy - but it's important, and Kid deserves her wholeness, just as she deserves his. She summons her bravery and trudges forward, despite the guilt that eats away at her otherwise iron-clad nerves. "She's a big deal, isn't she? I don't understand why you didn't tell me about her."

The openness he'd had about him only moments ago diminishes at an incredible speed. Tightly, he says, "I didn't think…"

"What," Maka says, tilting her head at him, "You didn't think what? Free came over, you know, just like Soul said he would, and he talked about her. And I didn't even know who she was!"

He doesn't cringe, not exactly, but he definitely fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve. "I left you the picture book."

How was she supposed to know how deep the curse ran?! How was she supposed to know their God was a real, flesh and blood person and not an overseeing, omnipotent figure, damning them to their curse? It's almost a slap to the face, that  _Maka,_ bookworm and general nerdbrain, hadn't been able to decipher a book written for  _children_. It's embarrassing.

"That's not fair! You didn't explain any of that. You just- You told me you were cursed. You didn't go into any of the details about-"

His expression's gone dark, now. Impossibly guarded. "I didn't think you needed to know."

" _My memory was at stake!_  That's kind of a big thing to just leave out, Kid!"

It's the first time she's raised her voice at him, she realizes, as he flinches back. She's had these little spats with Soul here and there - Black*Star teases them about it, sometimes, how they fight like an old married couple - but never with Kid. Until now, they'd been so amicable, if a bit distant. She'd chalked it up to Kid's awkwardness and general cluelessness when it came to other people, a lack of social awareness, and never really took any offense from it. They'd get more comfortable around each other in time. Things like this -  _friendship_  - took time.

Now, though, as he regards her hesitantly, shoulders taut, she wonders if they'll ever get there, if maybe she's crossed an invisible line. She's standing here, scolding him like a child, and he's taking it with gritted teeth and an even, unwavering stare.

It takes guts to collect himself after being shrieked at like that. She would know. She'd grown up doing it.

Her heart still hasn't climbed its way out of her stomach. Maka presses her hands to her face and lets out a long, cleansing breath.

"... I'm sorry," he says, finally.

The apology doesn't make her feel any better. At this point, Maka doesn't even know what she wants. A reason? An explanation? But Soul'd put it best - they all had things they didn't like to talk about. And Kid had been kind enough to ignore her demons, even if she'd shut him out to do it.

Well. She sure feels crummy now. "No," Maka says, sighing, hands sliding down her face. "I'm sorry. You must've had a good reason to leave me in the dark about it. I'm not really angry at you, just…"

"Angry in general?"

"Angry at  _everything_ ," she admits, feeling heavy and a little sick to her stomach. "Everything just keeps piling up and I don't know how to deal with any of it. I know you didn't leave out Medusa to hurt me, but I still…"

He doesn't prod, just sits and watches her quietly. Makes no movement to lessen the distance between them. She doesn't know why she half expects him to. The last time she'd felt so ragged, Soul had awkwardly patted her head and attempted to comfort her - but that'd been Soul, and this is Kid, and even comparing them in her mind feels tasteless.

Kid respects her boundaries. Kid doesn't break the house rules because he respects her, and she appreciates it. Really, she does. But without her Mama around, and with the amount of hours she's been pouring into her after-school job, she hasn't had a lot of time to spend with Liz or Patty. To say she's touch starved would be an understatement. It would be okay, she thinks, if he did decide to pat her shoulder or something.

But he'd never. He's far too polite to ever break the touch barrier, she knows that. Prim, pristine Kid wouldn't dream of it. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"I would've liked to know," she says, shrugging. "That's all. I know I still don't understand all of what's going on with your family but that doesn't mean I  _don't_ want to know. I want to be your friend, Kid, and I want to be there for you no matter what. I'd just really like to know what that  _what_  is."

Strange, that so many of these emotional, ground-breaking conversations of hers happen in the kitchen. Maybe there's something about the lightning, something about the homey atmosphere that lends her courage. Maybe it's just coincidence; either way, the timid way he swallows and watches her hold out her pinky is sweet, and when he nods, slowly, and links his pinky with hers, too, that tight, draining heaviness in her gut loosens. And just like that, she's breathing easier, too, and the room feels so much less small.

He shakes pinkies and then holds out his left, too. Maka matches him without comment. "I'd rather you'd never find out about her, honestly. She's not a very nice woman."

So there'd been truth to Soul's words; the noble rat had been trying to protect her, bless his heart. Maka Albarn needs protection from no man. "I can handle mean women."

"Really quite nasty," he admits, releasing her pinky. "I don't… I can't talk about her, not here, but-"

"That's okay," Maka says, reassuringly, stepping forward. "Just sometime, okay? Can I...?"

She stares at his hands, left hanging between them. To no surprise, his nails are immaculate, clean cut and perfectly clipped, and Maka knows at least the skin of his pinky fingers is soft. It's almost funny, that she's lived in this house for so long -  _months!_  - and they've never so much as brushed knuckles accidentally while reaching for a protractor or pencil. She's held Soul's entire furry little cat body in her arms and forcefully carried him out of sticky situations, and somehow she's never so much as touched Kid's hands, sans pinky fingers.

Curiosity killed the cat, not the weird half-snake. She gestures towards him.

He blinks, wildly confused. "Can you?"

"I'm supposed to ask for permission before touching you."

Talk of wanting to support him hadn't flustered him quite this much. He blushes, then presses his hands together, still held right there between them. "Oh! … Oh, um. I see. I suppose, if it's just-?"

"Just this," she says, clasping hers around his. He's warm, between her fingers, soft, immaculate baby skin. Not a single freckle. "It's weird, but when I was upset, Mama would cradle me to her chest and press her hands over my ears. And- well, I can't exactly hold you, but this is still… something. Touching is still  _something_."

It doesn't make sense. It's definitely weird. But Kid still offers her a tiny smile anyways and says, "Thank you."

She could laugh. "For what? I have working hands. Yours are like, stupidly soft-"

"For understanding." Gradually, eventually, he gains his bravery, too, and his hands shift and turn to hold hers, too, and then they're clasping hands, fingers laced like kids. "... I will tell you about her," he says, resolutely, more quietly.

It feels a little like playing patty-cake or cat's cradle with Patty. It's easy. Comfortable.

Maka cracks a smile, too. "Maybe after we rescue your bed from Free's girth."

Moment ruined. Kid sours almost instantly. "Please don't say 'Free's girth'."

"Oh.  _Oh,_  ew. Sorry."

.

Miraculously,  _Free's girth_ has not shattered Kid's straining bed frame. His limbs are too long, however, for Kid's tiny twin-sized mattress, and he hangs off of it uncomfortably, snoring loudly, mouth hanging wide open. Each massive snore shakes the bed, and his shoulders rise and fall monumentally with each inhale and exhale.

"Gross," Maka mumbles, "he's drooling."

Kid shakes his head and nudges Free's hand with the toe of his shoe. "I will have to sanitize the sheets."

"You don't drool?"

He gives her a dry look. "I take great pride in my cleanliness, Maka. Of course I don't  _drool_."

It's sort of something that happens while sleeping, so she can't really see how he'd ever be able to keep himself clean, but okay, sure. Maka shakes her head, too, and leans over to gently nudge his shoulder. "Maybe we should get an alarm clock going-"

"Free sleeps like the dead."

He doesn't  _sound_ dead. The guy snores loud enough to  _wake_ the dead, for goodness sake. It's like listening to a chainsaw revving up in preparation to chop down the big tree on the front lawn - not pleasant, to say the least. It rattles in her bones, caught between her brain and her skull, and Maka grits her teeth as he snorts and snuffles again, rolling over onto his back. Free then proceeds to scratch his butt in his sleep and Maka sighs and drags a hand down her face.

"Classy," she says.

Kid joins in the nudging, though now it's more jostling him than gently tapping his beefy bicep. Still, he doesn't rouse from slumber, but Kid seems undeterred as he continues to shake him, even as his bed creaks and whines beneath his snoozing form.

"Last call for the alarm," Maka offers.

Kid sighs. "No, that won't work. Eruka's been trying that for years. Let's just…" He shakes him again, more firmly this time. " _Free!"_

"Huhwhaaaa."

Oh. His eyes are open now. That… that's a little creepy, Maka thinks, taking an instinctual step back. From dead to conscious in 2.5.

Kid doesn't budge from where he stands, merely sighing and ironing out his own posture, straightening out the collar of his shirt. "Finally. Hello, Free. I see you've made yourself quite comfortable in my room."

"Aaaah,  _Kid,_ " Free says, groaning as he rubs his eyes and groggily yanks himself into a sitting position. The sleep in his voice makes it gritty, and for not the first time, Maka realizes her life has somehow become so intensely infested with men. The cut of Free's jaw is so distinctively masculine, even as he rubs at his face and yawns, again. "Good morning. It's nice to see you!"

How did this become her life? Waking men in bedrooms. Playing house with a cat, rat and dog. Crying over her father. Maka pushes a hand through her hair. "It's nearly three PM."

"Good morning!"

Kid does not dwell on Free's inability to tell time. "Maka said you wanted to see me?"

Free's smile widens. "Your ratliness, it is a pleasure."

"Please don't do that. You know how I feel about that."

"Lady Medusa has sent me," Free says, and Kid's expression goes tight, again. Maka finds herself gripping the hem of her skirt in her hand. "She's requested you visit. She's also requested you bring your little lady friend with you."

"You know my name!"

"Little lady friend," Kid says, unreadably so.

"She'd also like it if you'd bring Soul around, too," Free says, scratching his jaw. He yawns, again, then rubs his stubble. "Have you done something new with your hair? I like it."

Kid has done his hair the same way every morning since Maka met him. She highly doubts he will do anything new with it anytime soon. He is a man of routine, she's found, and takes great pride in maintaining such. Still, the compliment isn't wasted on him, and Kid's eyebrow does an adorable twitching in an obvious attempt to keep his expression stern. Still, it's easy for her to catch his bluff - and Free, too, judging by the way he grins as well.

"No," Kid says. "Don't try to distract me. Is there a reason behind this summons?"

Free shrugs. "Lady Medusa says she wants to meet the girl she's heard so much about. Aaaand I think she's unhappy that you skipped your latest check up," he adds, raising those thick, expressive brows of his.

Check up. Maka glances between them. Like… a medical check up? What?

Kid gives nothing away. He's unreadable, irritatingly so, and continues staring Free down with that same stony determination. "I see."

"I would heed her wishes, if I were you," Free says, then stands, stretching to his full, impressive height. He plops a hand atop Kid's head and ruffles up that perfect hair of his with an unexpected fondness. "Say hi to Eruka while you're there for me, will you? Lady Medusa's been workin' her like a slave since she'd summoned her to play assistant, and you know how Eruka is- scared shitless when it comes to our Lady. She'll do whatever she says…"

Maka blinks, lost. Eruka. "... Your friend?" she tries.

Free nods and snaps his fingers. Points them into a single finger gun and aims it at her. "You catch on fast, pipsqueak."

"Don't call her names," Kid says, without missing a beat. "Also, please remove your hand from my head."

It's funny, watching him obey Kid's wishes without hesitation. "Sorry, your ratliness."

Said ratliness  _huffs_  and begins attempting to sort out his hair. "Tell Lady Medusa Maka and I will come by to visit this weekend, please. Thank you for taking the time to come out all this way to share the message, Free, but you do realize we have a  _landline,_  right?'

"Hah!" He laughs, then messes Maka's hair up instead. "Nobody's used a landline since the 90's!"

Wrong. He's so objectively wrong, but he laughs from his belly as he trots right out the door and definitely doesn't hear her attempts to correct him. "Don't forget about the cat!" he calls, before slamming the door behind him with an impressive lack of grace and manners, and then Maka's staring at Kid, in his bedroom, feeling a lot like she'd been drilled by a drive-by.

Just like that, he's gone. The bed fame somehow remains unblemished, despite the weight of the largest man Maka's ever seen, and Kid stares back at her with messy bangs, looking worse for wear than he had half an hour ago, when he'd arrived home with books in hand.

Maka gapes like a fish. "What… just happened."

Kid sighs and rubs his forehead. "That was Free. He is the bull."

"He's  _big_ enough," Maka says, without thinking about it.

He doesn't even smile wryly. With crooked bangs, Free's departure seems to have left an unwanted gift with him, and the way he sighs again, raggedly, is far too telling. There's weight there, in his shoulders, in the way his body's begun tensing up.

She wants to believe he's overwhelmed. She's overwhelmed, for sure. It's so much information to take in at once - there's God, pulling her strings, apparently both encouraging and maintaining this strange, caustic system they live by - and then there's Kid's check up, which she doesn't know what to make of, either. Routine check ups are healthy, of course, but Maka would've thought it would be to a doctor's office of sorts, not- not something this woman should know anything about. The whole thing feels very stifling.

They're bound to her word, after all. Whatever that means. Maka wonders how deep that tie goes.

It's frightening, she realizes. The look on Kid's face, as he stands there, tenser than she's ever seen him - he's terrified, and it both angers and frustrates her.

"I'll be there with you," she says, sincerely, swallowing down her own cowardly fear. What she feels, what she thinks - it's all irrelevant now, and she instead steels herself. It's not about her anymore. The anger she'd felt had been selfish, though righteous, even if it'd been rooted in some truth. In this moment, staring at Kid, as he swallows thickly and nods shakily, it all makes sense, why he hadn't told her his whole truth; he's scared of Medusa, even if he won't admit it.

Well. Courage is the bravery to fight through that fear. And when Kid holds his head high and meets her eyes, it's courage she sees.

"I don't want to leave you alone with her," he says, very seriously. "And- I don't-"

"I won't leave you alone with her either," Maka interrupts, just as sincerely. "Don't worry. Besides, Soul will be there too."

Soul will be there too. If she can get him to speak with her, after today's little spat. Oh well. She will cross that road when she gets to it; for now, there are other things to worry about.

It's not choosing between her boys. It's working toward a greater goal. The biggest fish to fry; meeting this all-controlling God figure and maybe punching her in the tit.


	9. good riddance (time of your life)

The trip to the main house is unnervingly silent.

It's unlike Soul and Kid to remain so hushed. Usually, when the two of them are kept in a confined area together, there is at least bickering, if not some shoving and eye rolling. The two of them are like toddlers, and trying to make them keep their hands to themselves, even at the dinner table, is a project and a half - so this silence is unsettling. Neither of them say anything at all, no ribbing or sarcastic remarks or jibes, they just stare morosely down the road as Kid switches on the blinker and turns down a side road.

What is there to be done about it, though? These two are mysterious in their own ways, but even now Maka can tell they're stressed. Those masks they wear so often and so readily are cracked, and she thinks she can see the true color of their eyes, for the first time. The true weight of their reality has finally begun to sink in and she doesn't like it one bit.

It doesn't suit them to be so tense. They're rowdy in their own ways, and they're lively and youthful and so damn stubborn she doesn't know how to deal with it sometimes. But they're not this, whatever  _this_  is. Whatever the tightness in Soul's jaw is.

Maka leans back in her seat and stares out her window, too. The rain patters against the pavement and it's so ironic, she thinks, that the sky has chosen today to cry. Or… maybe ironic isn't the word, and she dithers on it instead of trying to pick apart her boys' moods, pressing her cheek to the glass of the window and watching raindrops slide down the other side. Alanis Morissette has lead her astray; there's nothing ironic about rain on a miserable day. That's coincidence. And a bummer.

The song buzzing from Soul's headphones switches to something equally as brooding and confusing. He'd muttered something incomprehensible when he'd dragged his feet and slouched into the passenger seat, looking every bit the mopey teenage-badboy he strives so hard to be, but there'd been a rawness in him as he'd shut his eyes and tugged the cans over his ears, something far too honest to be an act.

She wants to poke his shoulder and ask him how he's doing. Since his little rooftop escape days before, he's made himself sparse, seemingly avoiding her at every corner, and because of it she hasn't had a chance to properly talk things out with him. And it's stupid of her to feel so lonely because of it - because she has Kid, and he's more than enough for her, really! There's just something unsettling, now, about going days at a time without bumping into Soul in the hallway, or teaching him how to properly throw a punch in the backyard, or….

Well, the list goes on. Maka squirms in her seat and swallows her heart. It's not like she can talk things out with him while he's blasting Nirvana, anyway. She'll let him finish angsting out and then try again later.

.

They arrive about twenty-five minutes later, a few towns over from where they'd started. The quiet, tense atmosphere in the car is unceremoniously shattered as Soul slams his door behind him, grunts, and walks around the house and into the backyard without a peep.

Maka goggles after him. "Isn't he supposed to-"

Kid shakes his head and clicks his keys. The car doors shift into lock. "Let him be. He'll clean up his own messes. It's none of our business."

It doesn't lessen that hollowness in her chest. It's silly, but in the months she's been here, she's grown quite… accustomed to having him around, even if his presence was often nothing more than snoozing in her bed while she did her homework or a kitten in her lap while she reread her Mama's favorite books. This distance just feels empty, like he's farther away than he actually is.

It's  _silly_. He'd sat in the car with her. He's right outside the house she's about to enter. Soul's not that far away at all.

"Shall we?" Kid asks, nudging his head toward the front door.

She can't think Soul's a drama king and then stand brooding about him ignoring her. Whatever; there will be time to clear the air between them after. This trip is bigger than her, anyway, bigger than her dumb girlish feelings being hurt. It's selfish to worry about it when there's an obvious slouch in Kid's normally perfect posture.

He needs her, now more than ever before. Whatever lies behind the front door - it terrifies him, even if he's too polite to admit it.

She's his friend, after all. And friends stick together, through thick and thin, and support each other. More than anything, she wants to be there for him - be there for the both of them, cat and rat.

"Of course," Maka says, tugging up the hood of her jacket. "We'll get sick if we stand out in the rain, anyway."

Kid smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We'll make soup."

"Soul doesn't like soup."

He doesn't even roll his eyes. "Soul's too picky for his own good."

His words lack a certain bite to them, but Maka doesn't push it. If all he can manage is going through the motions of complaining about the cat, she'll play along. If it's the most he can muster of his routine, okay, fine. She feels a little off-kilter too. She gets it.

Kid's hands shake at his sides. Without thinking about it, Maka reaches for his hand and grasps tight, fingers locked. They're wet, almost clammy, and whether it's from nerves or the rain she can't tell. Either way, his trembling stops, even if his hand goes lax in hers moments later.

It's only after, when he gasps and looks up at her does she realize she's broken house rule number two. It'd just been instinct, to reach out and offer him support - there's comfort in physical contact, and when she'd been a scared, sobbing child, the one thing she'd always wanted was to hold her mother's hand. But- it's wrong of her to do so without asking, especially since this family has such a thing about physical contact, and Kid- Kid minds his space and never crowds her, even when it's clear she's not feeling well either.

"Oh!" she gasps, too, jerking back, releasing her grasp on him. Maka mutters a quick, feeble apology, but then that wrinkle in Kid's brow irons out and he reaches for her hand again without saying a word.

He holds on tight, this time. His hand doesn't shake at all, and so Maka squeezes his hand back, just to let him know that she's here and not going anywhere.

.

Together, they make their way up to the front door. Ever proper, Kid makes sure to knock twice, and when there's no immediate answer he rings the doorbell, too.

"Maybe there's nobody home," Maka mumbles.

Kid squeezes her hand. "We'll never be so lucky."

When the door finally does open, they're greeted by a slight girl, barely any taller than Maka. It's clear that she is not the dreaded Medusa, because Kid relaxes at the sight of her. Her most striking quality is her dark eyes, framed by long, white hair, and Maka thinks there must be something in the water around these parts, giving this family such strange hair colors.

"Eruka," Kid says, nodding.

Oh. She recognizes that name - this is Free's friend, apparently. Free's only friend? Aside from Kid, which still confuses her, admittedly. They couldn't be more different, and this girl - well, she doesn't seem particularly goofy or into fitness or Cheeto dust either.

"Nice to see you, Kid," she says. "Did Free send you?"

"Just passed the message along that I was being summoned," he replies.

She doesn't say anything to that, though there is a wash of sympathy that spreads across her expression. Her lips are painted a dark, dark black, and though the color draws attention to her faint grimace, she doesn't give much else away, just opens the door wider to allow them entry.

"Who's this?" she asks, then, glancing at Maka.

"A friend."

Eruka scrutinizes her for a moment. "A  _friend,_ " she repeats. "Oh. You're Maka, aren't you?"

She's not sure she likes everyone in the house knowing her name. It's a little uncomfortable, but Maka tries her best not to let it show. These people, this family - they're nearly fantastic at withholding their emotions, at being frustratingly unreadable except in desperate times, and it's sort of something Maka both respects and hates. Wishes, though, that she could emulate herself. Mama always said she was an open book, wore her heart on her sleeve.

She hates it. It feels like a weakness. She can't afford to be weak anymore, not while she's on her own, not while people are relying on her.

"Hi." Maka swallows the lump in her throat. "Yeah, I'm Maka. Free's told me about you."

"Oh god."

"It was nothing bad!" she insists. "He just… mentioned you?"

Still, Eruka rolls her eyes as she steps aside to let them in. "He has a big mouth," she says quietly as Kid leads Maka inside and shuts the door behind them. "A big heart, too, but sometimes he just gets talking and I think he forgets not to show his hand."

Everything about him is pretty big. Maka chooses not to voice that thought aloud and instead nods. "Did he say anything about me?"

Eruka shrugs. "Just that you were tiny and reminded him of bunny rabbits."

"What?!"

"Something about your hair, I guess." Eruka blinks at her. "... Pigtails."

 _Pigtails_. Of all things he could've taken away from their encounter - her offer of friendship, her living with Stein and Kid - the most memorable thing about her had apparently been her  _hairstyle_. They say beggars can't be choosers, she supposes.

Then again, Maka's not sure what she'd been begging for. A memorable quality? To leave a lasting impression on someone, for something other than her appearance? To mean something?

It's not about her. This isn't about her. Maka squeezes Kid's hand again.

He gets the idea. "Is she in the throne room?"

Eruka nods again, though it's more hesitant now than before. Actions speak louder than words and her pause speaks volumes. When she wordlessly turns and leads them down the hall, Maka knows that nothing she's experienced before will have prepared her for whatever waits in this throne room. Maybe it's in her nature, to be weary, or to be obedient, or whatever that intangible something had been that'd caused Eruka pause, but it still doesn't make the reality of this any easier to swallow.

It's not like she's ever been religious. As a child, her mother had never really brought up the topic of religion, and at seventeen, when Mama had passed, Maka had decided then and there that there was no such thing as a higher power. It wasn't right, to allow anyone to be so alone in this world. The only higher power she believed in was hard work, determination, and a whole lot of elbow grease. And a whole lot of  _her._  A whole lot of Maka, pulling herself up by her bootstraps, taking on the world before she was even old enough to do her own taxes.

So she's not sure what she'd been expecting, really, at the first meeting with Kid and Soul's god. Of all things, though, it probably wasn't a pale woman with long, burnt-gold hair braided down her front, eyes cold slits.

A chill runs down her spine as the door shuts behind her. Those eyes aren't  _human_ , nor is the way she blinks. It's unnerving, watching her move, watching her mannerisms, and when Maka tries to suck in a breath, tries to gather her footing, this  _Medusa_ licks her lips.

Kid's gulp is nearly audible. "My lady."

Medusa's legs are long and draped over the arm of her throne. Why she needs a throne, Maka wonders, is beyond her, and though it might not be the time or the place to question such trivialities, the petty, angry part of her still wants to ask why.

When Kid makes no further attempts at greeting his god, Medusa simpers and rubs the end of her braid between her fingers. "Rat. It's good to see you again. How delightful of you to show up."

Her voice is honeyed cyanide. Carefully measured, equal parts threat and promise.

"... Yes," he says, tightly. Maka's never heard his voice go so high before; he almost sounds like a child, with that strangled rawness caught in his throat, and she wishes holding his hand could do more for him. Wishes, too, that she could do more than stand there, glaring at God like a fool. "My apologies for this late… attendance, but school has been… "

"Distracting?" she asks, raising a brow. "There is a reason I advised against public school. But no, you begged and begged, and I've been so gracious to allow you to attend. If this is the thanks I get for being right-"

"Never," Kid assures, and his hand is clammy in Maka's again. "Never distracting. It's only a new chapter in my life. There's a transitional period, I assure you, and that is all."

"Hm." Her legs swing down so she's no longer lazing about but perched tall, brows furrowed. It's less snide and far more sinister, more commanding. "Because you'd never avoid me. Would you, now?"

Something passes between them. An unspoken threat, perhaps. Regardless, Kid goes silent, hand shaking in hers, and Maka finally steps up to the plate. "... I'm sorry."

Even the way Medusa blinks is unnerving. It's not quite out of the uncanny valley, the way she moves - clearly meant to be human, or at least emulate the way humans move, but there's something that's just too far off for comfort. An imperfect model. "You must be Maka."

She knows her name. Of course she knows her name. Eruka had known her name, too, and Free hadn't been surprised to find her in Stein's home, but still - it gets under her skin, all of these strangers knowing things about her. Even something as mundane as her name, it's still something she hadn't shared with them. Something they'd taken from her, gossipped about, as if she was some sort of pawn, some sort of plaything.

 _This isn't about you_. "You know my name."

"Of course I know your name," Medusa says, licking her lips again. "I know everything. I hear everything. I'm only offended that Kid never thought to introduce us. After all, it's a shame, keeping such a pretty girl all to himself. A pretty girl  _I_  allowed him to befriend."

Maka is not that pretty. She's trying to weasel her way under her skin. She won't have it. "I get the feeling Kid is just shy."

"There is no place in the zodiac for a  _shy_ rat. He's a leader, that one. Full of wit."

To be wise and to be socially apt are two completely separate things. They are not mutually exclusive and he can absolutely be both. And he absolutely is.

He doesn't defend himself, though. If it were Soul, she knows that he would in a heartbeat. He'd be classy about it, or at least play it off so, with his chin held high and drawn-on eyebrows impeccable. Kid and his damn high horse, as Soul would say.

But he doesn't defy his god. Or… whatever it is that's happening here. Kid bows his head almost as if he is praying and keeps his mouth shut, expression solemn, almost guilty. It's bizarre, to watch him flinch as Medusa stands from her throne and approaches him slowly, slithering forward. If she was inhuman before, she's almost monstrous now, that uncanny something about her downright terrifying. When she blinks, her eyes seemingly glow yellow.

"And he should act like one," she says, staring at their clasped hands. "It's his duty, after all."

"My lady."

"But I will forgive this oversight on your behalf," she says, hovering, raising her glance from their hands to instead stare at Maka, "because you have brought your dear guest to meet me. I thought I was never going to get the chance! I've heard so much about her, too."

"My sincerest apologies," Kid says, though it's clear the effort to do so costs him greatly. "This is Maka."

Medusa has that same sharpness about her that'd been so apparent in Stein. It does a spectacular job at getting beneath her skin, and Maka feels a little slimy, standing there as Medusa continues aiming all of her attention at her. It's not unlike being pinned beneath a microscope, she thinks. Just as invasive, just as impersonal, just as clinical - when Medusa gives her a literal head-to-toe once over, Maka feels a shudder run down her spine.

"Albarn," she says, without missing a beat. "Albarn, I presume?"

Is it written on her face? Well, she hadn't gotten her eyes from her mother, that is for sure, and they say eyes are the windows to the soul. Perhaps she'll never be able to wash the Albarn from her person.

Maka presses her lips together. "... Yes. Did Stein tell you that?"

" _Dear,_ " Medusa says, voice dripping with condescension, "Do you think I'd allow my boys to live with some strange girl without doing some sort of a background check? You must understand that I have to look out for my people. It's my job, after all."

"Of course," Maka says through gritted teeth. Kid's hand in hers tightens, palm still clammy, and their hands slip together, for a moment, uncomfortable and sweaty.

"You really do look like your father, though," she says, and it's so carelessly thrown about, the mention of her father, that it catches Maka off guard. She gapes for a moment, blood heavy in her veins, as a smile curls across Medusa's face. "Especially when you frown. There's something so very Spirit about the way your brows wrinkle- like that!"

Maka wonders if her father feels sick to his stomach every time she's brought up, too, or if he even cares. Wonders if she's even a thought in his mind, the daughter he'd left behind, the family he'd never wanted. To have Medusa standing there, smiling as she taunts her - it makes her stomach curl more, and for a moment Maka's afraid she might need to make a quick exit and locate a bathroom, lest her breakfast make an unannounced rerun. But she cannot leave Kid like this, alone in this room with the devil, and so she swallows thickly, hand just as clammy as his now.

"I've never met my father," Maka says, then, as carefully measured as she can manage. "I wouldn't know."

Her voice betrays her, though, and the single crack is enough for Medusa to burrow her way into. "A shame. Well, that can still be arranged. I'm sure Spirit would be delighted to be reunited with his long-lost daughter. Don't you think so too, Kid? What an idea! We could make a whole lunch date of it, here at the house."

There's no polite way to say  _not a chance in hell_. She'll have to just settle for the next best thing. "That's really not necessary."

"But Spirit would just  _love_  it," Medusa insists, reaching forward to brush the hair from Maka's eyes; the baby hair along her neck stands on end, and Medusa's touch is ice cold as she brushes her forehead. "His own flesh and blood  _mutt._ "

She is no helpless little girl, no damsel in distress. She hasn't been, not since Mama passed, not since she was domesticated and deemed a glorified housekeeper and babysitter, not since that day on the porch with Soul and his endless eyes; she's her mother's daughter, dammit, and any man who ran from a pregnant wife with his serpent tail between his legs is no father of hers.

Her family is what she makes of it. And if her family consists of two scrappy sisters, a shy rat and a frustrating stray cat, well, so be it. Her found family will support her more deeply than any man who'd done nothing more than fertilized her mother's egg and left soon after.

Kid tugs her back by her hand. Maka stumbles into him, brushing shoulders, and Medusa stands there, hand still outstretched, lashes low.

She sets her sights on Kid. That clammy hand in hers never falters for a second, and he's stone in her grasp, immaculately carved marble. The immovable man. "We're not allowed to touch her without her permission. It's a house rule."

Medusa doesn't blink. "A house rule."

"Rules are important," he says, voice far smoother than it has any right to be. Kid had been a nervous wreck driving here, hadn't been able to hold a conversation with her, hadn't been able to keep his mood to himself. It'd been tangible, that anxiety, but now - now, he doesn't budge and stares down his god like some sort of hero or something.

Like she needs a hero. Maka nudges his shoulder. He doesn't return it.

What a frustrating tug of war. She's caught between being thankful for his sacrifice, impressed by his bravery and frustrated with this  _hero complex_  of his. Maybe Soul was right; maybe she's not the only one in the house with an almost obsessive need to protect someone. Maybe she and Kid have more in common than she'd originally thought.

"Figures I'd find you three bickering about  _rules_ ," comes a voice from behind them, and Maka doesn't even need to turn around to know her cat's found his way home again.

Funny how he does that. All she has to do is think about him and he'll find a way to show up.

.

He's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and one boot scuffing Medusa's freshly waxed wooden floors, but Maka can read the tension in his stance from a mile away.

Honestly, Maka had half expected to find him grazing in the backyard garden or something, and had  _fully_  expected to have to drag him into the throne room by his ear, so to have him standing here of his own free will is surprising, to say the least. She knows  _she's_ stubborn, but if Kid shares her protective compulsions, Soul shares her bullheadedness. She has more in common with these frustrating, complicated boys than she cares to admit, sometimes, but this - well, Maka knows the only reason she'd shown up was to support Kid (and maybe get a chance to tit-punch God) and somehow she doubts Soul shares her same motivations in this particular instance.

She means protecting Kid. Soul would probably punch God. Maybe not in the tit, though. He seems more like a nose-punching kind of dude. But he definitely wouldn't go out of his way to stick his neck out for the rat.

Which is why his appearance is shocking. She gapes at him for a moment and he stares right back at her, an unreadable set to his jaw. It's unnerving, looking him in the eye so blatantly, especially since he's been so hard to get ahold of lately. He's made himself so scarce around the house, and now, to have him so near, to have his attention on her and her alone, despite the literal god in the room - well, she doesn't know what to make of that, either.

From her side, Kid sighs. "You're late."

"Only nerds show up on time." He still won't look away from her. She won't be the one to break it, either. "Didn't really think it was that much of a big deal."

Kid mutters something incomprehensible. Medusa, for her part, seems wholly unsurprised by Soul's little…  _show(?)_  and moves past Maka smoothly. Her strides are long and her bare feet make no noise as she glides through the room. It's only when she physically puts herself between the two of them does Soul finally break eye contact with her, only when he's literally forced to actually acknowledge the problem at hand head on.

"You never were timely, cat."

Soul snorts and shifts his weight. His boot clanks against the floor. "It's kind of my thing."

"Hm hm," she hums. From where she stands, literally body-blocking Maka from watching Soul (probably) roll his eyes, Medusa tugs her robe further up her shoulders. It's long - too long for her, surely, judging by the way it drags behind her - and black, embroidered with what appears to be the animals of the zodiac, trailing down her back. Gaudy.

"... Anyway," Soul says, shifting again, floorboards creaking beneath him. He stands taller, now, like the funny beanpole he is, peering over Medusa's shoulder to stare at her again. His eyes are bottomless, she thinks for not the first time. Endless, dark red, not unlike wine. She wishes she knew what any of this meant. "Apparently you requested me?"

"You skipped our last appointment as well," Medusa says, very smoothly, but there is more venom in her tone than she can mask. "I really don't appreciate being ignored, cat."

Maka's fingers itch. He has a name.  _God,_ Soul has a  _name._ To refer to him only as cat is… dehumanizing? She can't put her finger on it; Maka chews her lip as Soul exhales. "... Must've missed the memo. Don't really have an address."

And then, something shifts.

It'd been tense the entire time, of course. Nothing about this meeting had ever been comfortable, but for the life of her, Maka hadn't been able to put her finger on what was wrong about it. There'd been layers - the way Medusa regarded her, of course, as if nothing more than a mere irritation, a mutt, and the way Kid had tensed up when she'd approached him - but it flares up, now, that  _something_  in complete full throttle. Medusa gives it a name as she slaps Soul across the face, the sound sharp and sudden, and Maka's gasp cuts through the air like a knife just as cleanly.

Cruel. She's  _cruel._ Violently so.

Maka immediately pushes forward, and though she doesn't know what she'll do when she reaches them, to just sit and watch as Soul takes the hit without flinching, cheek pink and raw - it's unthinkable. It's a burning in her blood, this righteous fury, and it's only Kid yanking her back that keeps her from wrestling God to the ground and finally relishing in her tit-punching destiny.

"What-" she shrieks, but Kid's tugging her further back, still, and his grip is iron clad now. The only way to break free would involve taking his hand in hers and ripping herself away, hurting him in the process.

But the only other option is to sit and watch, which-

"You are to  _always_  obey," Medusa says, and that venom has finally begun to sting. Her voice is low, now, former false-pleasantries shattered unceremoniously. "Don't play cute."

Soul doesn't grimace. "I've never been cute."

God takes his jaw in her hand, now, and forces the cat to address her properly. "That's a good boy. I'm glad you finally understand."

He doesn't struggle, but there's a tightness there, in the way he holds himself. Teeth grit. Brows furrowed. "I really didn't get the memo."

"There  _was_  no memo," she hisses, and those jagged, sharp nails dig into his cheek like talons. They leave little crescent-moon dips in his skin, pale white, sure to pink later, and it's physically painful for Maka to sit by and watch while Soul's being handled like this, like he's nothing more than garbage on the street. "You know you're supposed to check in with me twice a month, cat. You've been doing it since you were just a kitten. I know you remember. Don't think I can't take away your little toy just because things have seemed so pleasant for you. Things are not the same for you. They've never been."

His little toy. Maka's blood rushes to her head and pumps around her ears, loud and constant, and she can't help it. It's just how she works, how she ticks; she cannot sit by and watch someone else be hurt, not like this, not ever - and certainly not Soul, who'd been so kind to her, so understanding. Not Soul, who'd looked at her with those moonlight eyes while she'd cried, not Soul, who still has no place to call home.

"Let me go," she grunts, twisting, squirming, yanking her wrist away from Kid. There's a flash of hurt on his face, just for a moment, and it doesn't sting the way she thought it might; he only shakes his head.

"You can't," he says, hushed. "It won't- you'll only make things worse, trust me."

"It's not right!" she shrieks, turning, and then Medusa is right there in her face, towering over her, eyes like slits. "I-!"

"Do you have something to say, dear?"

She has so much to say that she doesn't even know where to start. These intimidating tactics, these games of fear she likes to wage - it's child's play, now that she's lived with Stein for a few months now. Nothing she can't handle. Besides, Maka grew up in Kami's house. Matriarchal figures that aren't her own are powerless.

"No," Kid says, very smoothly, and his hand is just as clammy over her mouth as it'd been held in hers. Heart slamming in her chest, Maka struggles, but Kid keeps his grasp on her tight, heartbreakingly so. "No, Lady Medusa. Her apologies."

How dare he speak on her behalf. How dare he! Maka trembles in his grip, so angry that she can't help but vibrate all over like a bitter, mean little chihuahua. Ninety-five pounds of pure, unfiltered rage and  _fight_.

Medusa's smile is unnecessarily wicked. As if there's anything else she could do to make Maka hate her more. Not while Soul's still standing there, waiting for further punishment. "Don't worry your pretty little head about him, dear. The cat's not the same as the others, you know. He's monstrous. He's meant to be locked away. It's only a matter of time before he fulfills his destiny and we throw him aside."

Put him away. Maka bites Kid's hand and he flinches back. "What-"

"It's the best for everyone," Medusa says, far too gleefully. She takes far too much pleasure in this power she has, Maka realizes. It tickles her, the way these boys take her abuse without batting an eye, the way everyone in this cursed house ignores the way Maka's been literally screaming at their god.

 _We all have things we don't like to talk about around here,_  he'd told her once.  _Family drama,_ he'd said, looking spellbinding and unbearably sad, and that ache from before doubles. She'd been so selfish, crying about something as trivial as a wayward father.

"I don't see how it could be the best for him," Maka says icily.

Medusa  _laughs_. "Oh, he hasn't told you anything, has he? What, do you think he's just an unlucky little kitty? Why would we shun him if he was just a cat? Foolish girl."

The floorboards creak. Soul's stony mask cracks, and there's something there, in that half-second before he turns and flees the scene. Something there that hadn't been before, even as Medusa had raised her hand to him, even as she'd spit such terrible words. Fear, white hot, blazing in those deep eyes of his like wildfires.

The door slams behind him, and as his rapid footsteps echo through the hall, Medusa slithers past her and plops herself back down onto her throne with a heavy sigh, as if the whole thing had been actually exhausting for her or something.

"Scaredy cat," she says loftily. "Well, what can he expect? He'll be locked away by graduation anyway. Couldn't even muster up the courage to tell you the truth. He's a coward. I can't say I blame him. Who could love a freak?"

Maka doesn't think twice, just flashes Kid a heated look and takes off after Soul without waiting to hear more. It doesn't matter, she thinks angrily, shoving past the door and barreling down the hall, nearly tripping over herself in her haste - Soul'd been more afraid in that one moment than she'd ever seen him before. Skeletons in the closet don't matter to her one bit; even if he's the real monster of this strange tale she's found herself all twisted-up in, well, then he's one worth saving.

Or hearing out, at the very least. Everyone deserves a fighting chance. Even someone born into a role he'd never wanted to play.


	10. where is your boy?

By the time she's out the front door, Soul's long gone. She half expects to find him wheezing, hands on his knees, struggling to catch his breath on the porch. He's never been particularly athletically inclined or fit, so fight or flight must be one hell of a drug, she thinks, for him to be able to beat feet out of the premise so completely without Maka even having a chance to catch up to him. His hobbies include listening to music and sleeping; he's not a runner, her cat boy.

Her cat boy. The thought stings; she can't think things like that, not after witnessing Medusa's complete power over him, the way she'd completely disregarded his humanity and referred to him as nothing but  _cat_. He's more than that, she thinks, guilty. So much more than a furry little friend with cute pink beans. He's human, too. First and foremost, he's  _human._

And, for the first time, she'd seen him afraid.

Real fear. Not childish horror, like the boogeyman or monsters hiding under the bed. Real, adult fear, something that had haunted him to his very core.

Cars whiz by on the road and Maka stands on the sidewalk, heart galloping in her chest, blood racing. He's nowhere to be found, but- but when he has nowhere to go, this homeless, lost boy, Maka doesn't even know where to begin looking. How can she? He's without a touchstone, and with the way he'd looked at her, she doesn't know if she'll ever understand him well enough to find him, either.

Hopelessness wells up inside of her. She could scream. She might just scream, just to keep herself from crying harder.

.

The ride back home is just as silent and tense as the ride to was.

Kid doesn't make any move to turn on the radio. Maka doesn't have it in her to take the passenger seat, not while Soul had sat there only hours ago, and so she plants herself in the back seat and stares out the window. Her head's too full to even entertain the thought of trying to hash out what'd just went down with Kid anyway, not while he grips the steering wheel so tightly.

She wouldn't know where to begin with him. There are too many layers to unravel, too many loose ends that frustrate her, too much everything. He'd put his hand over her mouth and tried to silence her. No matter the intention, it's still - it burns, the seething anger, and Maka swallows thickly and squeezes her hands down into her lap. She tries to remind herself that he'd just been looking out for her, that he'd been as terrified of Medusa as Soul had been, even if he'd taken no physical blows. That he'd been trying to protect her, just the same way she'd been trying to protect him, and she really ought to be thankful for his consideration.

But it's hard to be thankful when Soul had been there, too, just as much a victim of it all as Kid was. And it goes deeper than the physical part, that the vile woman had laid a hand on him. When it comes down to it, they're both trapped in her web, but Medusa hadn't said anything about locking the rat away.

Punished for being born. Maka might just scream after all.

Kid pulls into the driveway and shifts the car into park. Maka makes no moves to leave the car, still stewing in her seat.

He heaves a sigh and turns the key back in the ignition. "... We're home, Maka."

"... Okay."

It's stopped raining long ago, but Maka still can't help but worry if Soul's found somewhere dry to sleep for the night, or even if he'll find something suitable to eat for dinner. What will he do, she wonders, without her little part of roof to sleep on, without her leftovers to feast upon? Where will he go? Where can he go?

Maybe he'll find her old tent.

"I'll order pizza for tonight," Kid says, unbuckling himself. Maka still stares out the window. "Don't worry about cooking, really. I don't know about you, but I'm really not in the mood to prepare anything."

Soul won't be stealing her crust or pepperoni tonight, then.

"... He's here, isn't he?" she ends up asking, and the leather of Kid's seat squeaks beneaths him as he turns to look back at her.

Kid sighs. "Where else would he go?"

"I don't know. I don't know where he goes when he's not napping in the garden."

He purses his lips. The seat squeaks again as he leans forward to watch her, but Maka still can't meet his gaze. It's hard, trying to swallow down her anger; she wants to scream, still, and to scream at him in particular so badly, but it'd be unfair. He'd been trying to help, she knows that, and he hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, but it's still - Soul's missing and Kid is still more concerned about  _her_ wellbeing.

She doesn't need protecting. Not while she sits, unharmed, with a guaranteed roof over her head. Not while she has freedoms that they do not.

"I'm sorry."

It's not the balm she needs. Maka doesn't look up, just keeps staring out the window, hoping, haplessly so, that Soul will appear, legs dangling from a branch, nibbling on a carrot or something.

"Tell me about him," she says, then, nerves plucked like a guitar string.

Kid purses his lips. "Soul?"

Who else? Maka's blood still runs hot, a barely banked inferno. "Of course Soul! What did she mean about locking him away after graduation? You didn't mention anything about that! All he said- all he said about anything was if he beat you in a fight, God said he could be part of the zodiac!"

"He'll need a miracle for that."

"Now is not time for your pride!" she hisses, hands balled up into fists in her lap. She could just shake him, and the thought is as infuriating as it is scary; she's never thought about hurting Kid, or challenging him in this way, but today has her all messed up and all she wants is for things to go back to the way they'd been a month ago.

Goodness, she'd give anything to go back to trying to brainstorm ways to keep her boys from bickering with each other. What a simpler time, what a simpler her, to assume this was the extent of their curse. To be so happily ignorant, clueless, even. To not know that their so-called  _God_ was so controlling and power-hungry. Past Maka didn't realize the road she walked was a dead end.

Kid at least has the compassion to bow his head to her. "I'm sorry."

She thinks she might be sorry, too, but she's too heated to admit it. Docile, naive Maka might've been more apt to bow her head, too, and let bygones be bygones.

That  _Maka_ can't come to the phone right now. "What did she mean about  _locking him away?!_ "

"... He is the cat."

"I'm  _aware._ "

He's unreadable, now. Wears that mask of his quite primly, cheekbones immaculate as he looks down at her like this. More distinguished rat and less of the mistreated child of five minutes ago. "He's not one of us."

"As far as I'm concerned he is," Maka hisses, leaning forward now, too, nose-to-nose with the very boy she'd been trying so hard to defend only an hour ago, while God has spoken so terribly of him. How the times change, she thinks, still shaking all over. Fight or flight hasn't yet given up on her, and currently she feels uncontrollably balled up, like she might explode at any given moment. "He's afraid of getting close to people, Kid, just the same as you!"

"He's not," Kid says, flatly.

"Of course he is! He's never once- he can't  _hug me,_ Kid," she blurts.

"Do you think he wants to?"

That's… not the point. And this isn't the time or place for Maka to psychoanalyze why the first thing that'd come to mind was  _hugging her,_ either. "I don't know! It doesn't matter. He can't hug anyone, Kid. And even if he could, I don't think he'd be able to bring himself to do it anyway."

"I'm not afraid of getting close to people."

"Aren't you?" Maka asks, exhaling shakily. Kid budges back and it's all the proof she needs. "You don't like it when I'm this close to you."

He sits back, adjusts the collar of his polo shirt. "That's not true at all. I held your hand, did I not?"

"You never touch me first." And neither does Soul. "It doesn't- I'm not going to hurt you, Kid. I want to help you! God, I want to help the both of you, but you guys make it so hard sometimes. I just wish-"

"Wish what?"

"I wish you'd just get along! I wish- I wish there was a way to support him and support you at the same time!" It's hard on her, to care so deeply for such two polarizing entities. With Kid, she's always so careful about minding his personal space, minding her manners, wanting him to be happy and comfortable around her, and with Soul- with Soul, she just wants to pull his purring face into her arms and hide him away from the world. Wants him to know that there's someone who cares, too, even when he's too stubborn to admit that he wants the help.

Kid watches her. Blinks once, twice. "... Would you like it if I hugged you?"

Not… the point. She doesn't think it's the point. Maka plants her face in her hands and screams, just a bit. Just enough to relieve some of the tension in her bones. "I don't know! Of course, but that's not- that's not what I'm trying to say at all-"

"Because I don't think you do, sometimes," he says, and he's got this gloomy tone to his voice that she doesn't like one bit. "But you want him to hug you, correct?"

Maka has never blushed in her life quite like this. It makes no sense at all. Hadn't they been arguing about Soul's future and why she needed Kid to stop being such a priss about it? There's no reason for her face to feel so hot, for her stomach to feel so torn apart. "I want to hug the  _both_  of you," she says, muffled, cheeks warm in her hands. "Because I  _care_ about you. You're my friends! I just- I want to be friends with the both of you without hurting anyone, and you guys make that so hard to do sometimes-"

"You can be his friend."

"I  _can't!_ " she shrieks, finally looking up, eyes infuriatingly damp. "I can't! I can't be his friend while I'm your friend if you're just going to stand by while she talks to him like that! You know I can't!"

He stares back at her evenly. Only flinches when she sniffles and scrubs at her stupid wet eyes. "Maka..."

"No!" Crying is not weakness. It's not. She's not weak, never weak. Feeling this deeply cannot be a folly, not if it fills her with such determination. To be driven, to be motivated - it's the only thing that keeps her going, these days, this sheer, virile compassion, and Maka latches herself onto any sort of purpose. "No, don't 'Maka' me! You don't get it!"

He's so patient with her, even when it's clear that he's frustrated. "I don't get what?"

That she cares about the both of them, even if it's not always in the same way. That she wants to protect the both of them, but can't when Kid's very existence causes Soul so much turmoil. She can't, when being around Soul makes Kid so thorny, when mentioning Soul makes Kid crease his brows and shy away from her.

"... Him!" she finally settles with. "Him! You don't get  _him_. All he wants is to belong somewhere, and you- he doesn't have a choice in anything, and you-!"

"Do you think I have a choice in this either?"

"No!" Of course he doesn't; that's not what she's trying to say at all! It's just not black and white the way she needs it to be, and it makes her cry harder, miserably planting her face back into her hands. "Uuuugh, I just wish this was easy! I just wish he'd come home so I could make sure he ate something tonight, and then maybe I could talk this over with him-"

There's tension now, in Kid. Especially in the way he's looking at her, expression pinched, as if he'd eaten something spectacularly sour. "You can pick him. I wouldn't understand, I suppose, why someone might want to surround themselves with the cat, but-"

"I'm not  _picking_  anyone!" What part about  _I want to support the both of you_ isn't he understanding? "There's no need for me to pick!"

"You said it yourself." Kid watches her, thoughtfully. "You can't find a way to support the both of us simultaneously. We're not meant to get along. Soul and I have never gotten along, in any incarnation. Every version of us have been enemies. It's the role we've been born to play. I'm sorry."

That's quitters talk. Accepting destiny like that, taking the world's beating without even trying to fight back; it's accepting defeat, essentially, and she won't stand for it.

Maka pops the lock of the door and kicks it open. "You've never even  _tried_."

Her phone rings before Kid has the chance to defend himself. Maka sits, car door hanging wide open beside her, one leg inside and the other out, weighing her options. Kid stares at her, expectantly, as she reaches into her back pocket to summon her phone and slide her finger across the touch screen to answer, silencing  _Heads Will Roll_  and subjecting herself to whatever else the universe wants to throw at her.

What else can it do? How much more can she carry on her shoulders? She already feels off-balance, like at any moment her ankles will give out and she'll teeter to the ground.

"... Hello?"

"Pipsqueak?"

Jesus. It's  _Black*Star._  She's not in the mood to deal with the likes of him right now. Really, she's not in the mood to deal with much of anything, if her argument with Kid, of all people, is any evidence, but - but the last time she'd seen Black*Star, she'd locked his piglet-self in a closet for teasing her about her… slighter-than-average figure. The absolute last thing she needs right now is to be belittled in any shape or form.

The universe has a funny way of messing with her. Maka rubs her face and groans.

"Hello?" he asks again. "I called the right number, didn't I-?"

"How did you  _get_  my number," Maka ends up hissing, kicking both legs out of the car and facing the dim, cloudy sunlight instead of Kid's burning gaze.

"Soul. Duh. I went through his phone."

"... When?"

"Like." There's shuffling on his end, and then his voice goes hushed. Or. As hushed as Black*Star's voice can go, she supposes. More like a stage whisper than anything. "Like just now. He's sleeping on my couch."

She's not sure what's more surprising; that Soul had gone to Black*Star, of all people, or that Black*Star actually owns a sleepable couch. Somehow, in her head, Black*Star was just an entity. An obnoxious, perverted entity, that just resided in that janitor's closet they'd locked him in, perpetually an overly-cute piglet, snuggled up to Soul's chest. It makes sense that he'd have a place to stay. The boar isn't othered in the way the cat is, apparently. They all suffer, but Soul's the monster of the group. Apparently.

Apparently.

"Aren't you supposed to hate him?" Maka asks, sliding out of the car and slamming the door behind her. Vaguely, she hears Kid shuffling to follow and do the same, but she's already taking steps toward the sidewalk, staring down the road with a heavy heart. "Everyone else does."

"Hah! Why would I hate my best Abroham Lincoln?"

She doesn't know. That's sort of why she's so upset with everyone right now. How in the world is  _Black*Star_  the only sensible one in this family? How low do standards have to be for that to be an actual, legitimate fact of life, god. Maka rubs her face again. "... Because he's the cat?"

"Brotato needs a big, strong man to protect him." He's really not whispering anymore, but Maka knows Soul sleeps like the dead, so whatever. "'Sides. We have history. I punched his bullies in the teeth when we were pipsqueaks. Unbreakable bond!"

And now he's shouting. Maka moves her phone away from her ear, wincing. "... But he's with you? And he's safe?"

"Yeah. Bout that."

"I don't like that tone."

"He's here." A door closes on his end, and Black*Star actually sighs. "... I might need a feminine touch for this one, though. The great Black*Star is fantastic at entertaining and serving his people  _gun shows,_ but he doesn't do tears. Soul's mopey face makes me want to die."

Her aching heart plummets into her stomach. "What?"

"He didn't say anything, because he's a big stubborn baby, but you guys had that visit to the main house today, right?"

"Did he tell you that?"

Black*Star scoffs. "No. Don't you listen? I just said he didn't tell me anything, pigtails. Word travels fast in this family. Like… real fast. Someone's gonna come knocking on my apartment door and know he's here and then they're gonna find Soul snoring and drooling in my shag pad."

Kid's footsteps behind her barely even register. The last place Soul needs to be is a shag pad, and though unreasonably defensive over this boy she holds no claim over (because they're friends, just friends, and he clearly doesn't trust her enough to tell her everything) there's still a burning desire in her to bring him home safe. Or… or bring him to her tent, safe. Anything else than letting him couch surf at questionably sanitized bachelor pads and let that fear she'd seen in him brew into something deeper, something darker.

"Maka," says Kid, though he doesn't set a hand on her shoulder. Minds her personal space, as always, and it's stupid, for her to want him to. Stupid of her to crave that physical contact, the comfort of touch. The rat won't stick his nose out for the cat.

She spins and gives him a  _look_. "Where do you live?" she asks Black*Star, as Kid stares at her with something grim in his eyes.

"Maka," Kid tries again, but it's too late. He has to know, doesn't he? Soul's her boy, now, just the same as he is. They're both her boys, through better and worse, and when she brings her stray cat home the three of them are going to have a nice long talk about respecting one another's differences and struggles.

Because there's power in numbers. Those who suffer can find comfort in one another. Can find companionship, too. It's gone on too long, this tug of war between them, and Maka's too old to be anyone's plaything. She's a human person, too, just the same as them, and she cannot be pulled in so many different directions. Not now, not ever. Either they're together or they're nothing at all, because she's not picking sides.

If her options are one or the other, she choses to make her own destiny instead. Maka sets her hand on Kid's shoulder, instead, and gives a comforting squeeze.

Screw this curse. She'll find a way to break it yet. It's gone on too long, this predetermined rivalry, this omnipotent power Medusa holds over them, over their happiness. It's time the cat and the rat understand what freedom actually feels like.

.

She goes alone.

Though resolved to get the two of them to get along and come to understand one another, Maka thinks it might be a bit soon to shove the two of them down the road to friendship. Baby steps. First, she'll get Soul to come home, get him to talk to her about what had went down earlier today in the throne room. Only then, when he's feeling safe and she feels like she understands him a little better will she put her plan into motion.

Black*Star's apartment complex is as crummy as she'd expected. There's no elevator, which is fine, because she works on her days off and though her legs appear twiggy they are fierce, but it sort of explains why Black*Star's thighs are as rock-solid as they are. If he's climbing three flights of stairs everyday, both ways, who the hell needs leg day?

The door's not even locked. Hell, it's not even shut. From inside, Maka hears the faint muffled sounds of electronic music of sorts.

Well, it's only polite to knock. Maka sucks in a breath and raps her knuckles against the wooden frame of the door. When there's no resulting answer and the electronic music cranks up louder, she instead elects to let herself in and shuts the door behind her. The sound of the lock clicking doesn't stir any lumbering, piggy-beasts from their… jam session? Work out time? Whatever it is Black*Star's doing with the music cranked that loud.

Whatever. He'd called her over anyway. Maka ignores the smell of unwashed dishes and dirty socks and rounds the couch to find Soul snoring away.

It's not a peaceful sleep. Usually, when Soul's napping on her bed, the lines in his face aren't pulled so tight, his forehead not so wrinkled. His hair's more of a mess than usual, less purposefully tousled and gelled and more frizzy and… well, everywhere, sticking up on end as if he's been tossing and turning. Or pushing his hands through his hair. More than anything, else, there's a raw purpling beneath his eyes, an almost-red violet, and she suspects very strongly that it's not just stained from his typical late nights.

Maka crouches. Pauses, just for a moment, considering. She watches the way his shoulders rise and fall as he sleeps, soundlessly. Usually, he snores, and when she wants to nap, too, she has to press her cold feet to his ankles to wake him.

"Soul," she says, gently. "Hey. Soul. Wake up."

Of course it doesn't work. If he can sleep through Black*Star's terrible music, whispering to him won't change anything.

She reaches for his hair, first. Smoothes back his bangs, runs her fingers through, tucks some of it behind his ear. It's soft, but not as soft as his fur, she thinks, biting her lip. Well, human Soul swears by gel and hairspray to keep himself looking cool and careless, and cat Soul gets pampered by her. Still, there's a part of her that wishes it could be different, that he wouldn't smear so much product into his hair, that he'd let it dry naturally and fluffy so she could pet him this way, too.

It's probably weird. Definitely weird.

Maka doesn't move her hand, though. It's self-indulgence. She'd been worried sick over him, wondering where he'd run off to, wondering if he'd had a place to go. The relief is almost overwhelming.

Almost. Still, she's too aware of the circumstances that bind them. The whole reason Black*Star had bothered to call her at all was to whisk Soul away somewhere safe. Or… at least somewhere that Medusa wouldn't immediately check for him. If she was upset with him for being cheeky, Maka can't imagine what she'll be like, now that Soul had literally fled the scene with his poor little tail between his legs.

"Soul," she says again, still far too sweetly. Who is she, speaking in such hushed tones to a boy? Maka's fingers slip from his hair and now she's cupping his cheek, still damp. Black*Star hadn't been kidding about the crying thing. " _Soul."_

His brows furrow. Maka brushes her thumb along the curve of his cheekbone.

"Wake up," she says, more urgently now. "Hey. Sleepyhead."

"... Hhwwhhh," he sighs, blurrily. Soul squints and watches her through his lashes, still caught in between dreamland and reality. His face scrunches up, scrutinizing, confused, and Maka realizes belatedly that she's still sort of cradling his face.

She jerks back guilty, as if burned. Presses her palms down onto the cushion of the couch. "I found you."

It takes him a moment, but he finally comes to his senses. Realizes, perhaps, the gravity of the situation - she'd found him, clearly, when he did not want to be found - and the way he gasps and jerks back stings. That fear is back, again, partnered with a spectacular, unmasked dread, and Maka wonders then if he'd been afraid of her, all along, and not Medusa, who'd raised a hand to him.

Yeah. That stinging sinks deeper.

"Maka," he yelps, clambering back. "What- how'd you-"

"Black*Star," she says, simply.

"How'd he find your number?"

She shrugs. "Your phone, I guess."

"Shit." He pushes his hand through his hair and all of Maka's hard finger-combing work is effectively ruined. He'd looked so cute, too, with his hair pushed back like that. She could see his eyes, without his scene hair obscuring everything except for his mouth. "Shit. You weren't supposed to- I didn't want you to-"

She stops crouching. Falls back to sit on her butt on the floor instead, defeated. "Didn't want me to find you? I'm sorry. I was worried about you."

He swallows. Maka tries not to watch the way his throat moves as he does so. Tries not to watch his Adam's apple bob, especially. He's so distracting, these days. She can't seem to ever explain why.

"Worried about me," he says, nonsensically. "You- you shouldn't be here. You should go."

"I want you to come home."

Soul sits, now, leaning back. Maka presses her hands into her lap instead, tangling themselves together, brushing against the hem of her skirt. Soul's ears burn red and he splutters, effectively squirming his way over the back of the couch, so catlike that it hurts. "I don't have a home. You know that. Besides, it's late, and Stein gets so grouchy when he hasn't had food, you should-"

"They're ordering pizza." Maka watches him watch her. "I made sure they ordered anchovies. Your favorite."

He braces himself on the back of the couch, but he won't look at her now, and instead Maka's left watching him stare over his shoulder passionately. She wonders, then, where she'd went wrong, how she'd managed to leave a scar on him without her knowledge. Is he still upset about their argument, days ago? Is he upset with her for standing by and watching while Medusa had struck him?

But he has to know she hadn't done it willingly. He has to know she'd wanted to defend him, more than anything else. Standing by and watching, like some pretty little doll, while he'd received punishment - it's not who she is, not written in her code. It'd hurt her, to watch him take such abuse without batting an eye, as if it was normal. It shouldn't be normal. Nothing about it should be normal for him.

"I'm sorry," she says, then, slowly pulling herself to her feet. "Did I do something wrong?"

Soul laughs, but it's humorless. "You never do anything wrong."

She can't tell if she's supposed to take offense or not. "Are you okay?"

He snorts and folds his arms across his chest. Leans back and pivots, aiming himself more at the door, now, than her. That stinging feeling has sunk into her stomach and Maka wants to reach out, more than anything, and grab ahold of him. Maybe shake him. Demand answers. Pour out all of the ugly, confusing feelings inside of her that make her feel like she might get sick and scream and cry, all at once.

She wants, really, to climb atop her roof with him again and watch the stars. Listen to him talk about his day, even if it includes hearing him complain about something Kid's done. It's silly, but she feels so far away from him, even though they're only a few feet away from each other. Like there's been damage done to whatever makeshift bond they'd patchworked together, orphaned girl and shunned boy, and it's sickening, to feel so powerless. She's a girl of action, of messy plans and stubborn willpower. She wants to bulldoze through all of his murkiness and get to the root of it.

But she can't. It's bigger than her, now. Bigger than just the two of them. There are too many frayed ends, too many roads that've all lead to their now.

"I'm fine," he says. Soul still won't look her in the eye. "It's whatever. Medusa's always like that. Don't really have a choice but to suck it up and do as she says, anyway-"

"What did she mean about locking you up?"

Maka takes steps to round the couch and face him. He's trapped, now. If he wants to make a break for it, again, he'll have to go through her to do it. It's unfair of her to pin him like this, effectively flanking his escape route; there are no windows for him to safely leap out of this time, after all.

Soul breathes out through his nose. "Maka."

"Please." She can't take it anymore. This accidental, blissful ignorance - it's not blissful at all, and she feels  _stupid,_  living life so naively unaware of his position. Has she been wasting hours, counting shooting stars, while he's been living on borrowed time? It's selfish of her, and she feels sick just thinking about it. "You can't keep leaving me in the dark about this. I want to help, Soul. I can't help if you two just let me stay so  _stupid_."

He looks over her head, still can't look her in the eye. "You're not stupid. Don't say that."

"I am!" She marches toward him, then, and Soul only takes one step back to her three forward. "I've been so stupid all of this time! I thought- I thought I could help you beat him, maybe, and that it could help you."

He swallows again. "Yeah, well. I'm the jerk for letting you believe in that long shot."

" _You_  stop that." She could just shake him. Can't he see the weight he holds in this world? He has a place, even if he can't see it. He has a place, here, in this life with her, and if he can't see the torch she's carrying, then he's blind. She ought to brush the hair out of his eyes again. "I'm your friend, you big…!"

"Jerk?"

" _Jerk,_ " she hisses, hands down by her sides now. "Yeah, jerk! You're right! You're a jerk, for letting me go on thinking that we had all of the time in the world to train you up for a stupid fist fight. You didn't say anything about being locked away! If I had known, I would've- I could've-"

"Could've  _what,_  Maka?" His resolution is frigid. He's never felt farther away than right now, and she's right in front of him, for goodness' sake. "There's nothing you can do about it. There would've been no point in me telling you that this all was time sensitive. It would've just upset you, and then you'd get angry, and then you'd do something dumb like try and change things when there's nothing to change. This is just the way things are. The way things have always been."

It's practically the same spiel Kid had given her. It has no different effect, either. "That doesn't mean you get to leave me in the dark! God, Soul!"

He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Sorry."

"I hate the way she talks about you," Maka blurts, feeling fully like a freight train, now. "I hate the way she treats you. And Kid, too! But- but it's different with you, it's like- she didn't  _hit_ him-"

"The cat is the scapegoat." Soul shrugs, as if this is a completely normal thing for him to endure. "I told you that."

"It's not right!" And if he thinks he'll convince her of such, he has another thing coming. "Locking you away, like some kind of animal! It's disgusting, the way she treats you, and you just took it like she was justified in it!"

He leans back. Takes a step back, too, shifting his weight. "I am an animal, in case you've forgotten."

The tears are hot and make everything blurry, but she won't be ashamed for crying, not on his behalf. If he won't, well, someone has to. Maybe her tears will welcome his. Misery loves company. "You're more human than cat and you  _know_ it."

He doesn't say anything to that. He blinks, and his gaze sinks lower, not quite at her eyes, but lost, somewhere beneath her nose. Her neck, perhaps. Shoulder. Lips. Jaw. What's important is that it's at her, in some shape or form, and she sucks in a trembling breath and scrubs her face.

"Just," she says, sniffling. "Come home, please? We'll eat pizza and you and I can talk about things. I'll tell you about my mom, I don't care anymore, I just-"  _Want you around. Can't imagine her life, in any capacity, without you in it._ "... I won't let anyone hurt you."

"Christ." Soul's hands shove deeper into his pockets, somehow. His slouch deepens, as if the weight of the conversation actually drags him down. "Maka. She didn't hurt me. She hasn't hurt me since I was a kid. You sort've… grow leather skin, after a while. It's not like any of this is new for me. I've always known this is what was going to happen to me."

She can't lose another person she cares about again. Not like this. Not ever.

"Are you afraid of me?"

His brows actually shoot up at that. "What?"

"You won't… look at me." Not really, anyway. "And when she'd started talking about locking away, you looked so scared and bolted, so I thought you were afraid of that, but… but when you saw me you looked at me the same way."

Soul fidgets. Stops staring at whatever part of her he'd become fascinated with and instead shoots anxious looks at Black*Star's door, locked behind her. "I'm not afraid of you."

He's not afraid of her, but he won't look at her. Maybe it's not her he's afraid of, but it's something about her, something concerning her; the evidence is too damning. It's not childish insecurities, not this time. When she makes to move toward him again, he jumps back, and there's that fear again, blazing through the cracks of his mask, his walls.

"It's okay," she says, still teary. "Soul, it's okay, I don't care- I can help you, if you'd just-"

"You don't understand," he yelps, and he's right, she doesn't. She doesn't understand any of it, why he's suddenly so nervous around her, why he flinches away from her touch, as if she'd been the one to strike him in that throneroom.

Soul does what he does best these days and tries to run for it. But she's too close, this time, for him to get away, so neatly positioned in his way. When he tries to brush past her and bolt for the door, Maka grasps for him, any part of him, to anchor him down. And with Black*Star's loud, undistinguishable playlist blasting only a door away, she manages to get ahold of his wrist, and in his haste to peel her hand off, he ends up wedging her fingers beneath the bracelet he's always wearing. The elastic stretches, and Soul gasps.

In the half-second between him turning and realizing what's happening, there's unadulterated fear, there in him. Burning, burning, and when Maka tries to get a better grasp on him, both literally and figuratively, the elastic of his edgy little beaded bracelet stretches.

"Don't- let  _ **go,**_  please, Maka, you can't-"

She can't. If he runs out that door, she's afraid he'll never see him again. Material things are replaceable. He's not. If the bracelets really that important, she'll buy him ten. Hell, she'll make them herself, beaded painstakingly piece-by-piece by hand.

Maka burns just as frantically as he does. "What're you so afraid of? Why won't you talk to me?"

"You need to- let GO, for fuck's sake, you don't understand-"

"I'll  _never_ understand if you don't tell me!"

Elastic is only that. Stretchy but thin. Miraculously, it doesn't break beneath the urgency of their tug of war, but when Soul tries to yank his arm back and stumble back, ready now, more than ever, for his great escape, the bracelet slips from his bony wrist and drops to the ground.

She squeaks. "Soul, wait, please, you're-!"

There's not a force alive that can stop him, now. When the bracelet hits the floor, the skin in her hand turns cold. Then clammy. Almost… slimy.

His eyes grow wider. Inhumanly so. Dark, too. It's like his bones are no longer his own, and his shape shifts, and his resulting scream is so blood-curdling painful that it resonates so deeply in that hole left empty in her heart. Resonates there, reverbs, and Maka stumbles back, horrified with herself at her cowardice, as Soul's spine elongates, impossibly so.

She doesn't get a good look after that. When his back turns, his skin is wine-red, and the clothes melt off his body like a snake shedding his skin, and the cat is out of the door before she even has a chance to apologize and collect the stretched bracelet from Black*Star's dusty floor. And Maka gives chase, because she still knows, without a doubt, that once he's out that door she won't have a chance, again, to reconcile with him. She wants him, in ways she can't understand. Wants him, in any shape or form, to hold his rightful weight in her life.

So she screams, "Soul!", but he's already leaping down the flights of stairs.

The bones and bumps of his spine cut jagged ripples in his painted skin, hunched over like some sort of… some sort of… she doesn't know what. She doesn't have the words for it. Not words she wants to spend on someone like Soul.

_(Who could love a freak?)_

 


	11. monster (by skillet)

With shaking hands, Maka clutches the beaded bracelet to her chest.

"Dude," comes Black*Star's voice from behind her. She doesn't turn, but hears his electronic music buzz down to a more reasonable hum as his bedroom door swings shut behind him. "Dude," he says again, "what's with all of the screaming? I didn't ask you to come pick him up because I wanted a front-row seat to some shitty mid-afternoon  _soap opera_ -"

Slowly, mindlessly, she turns to face him. She's still processing everything and doesn't have the words to properly explain what that mid-afternoon soap opera was all about, but when he catches a glance of Soul's signature beaded bracelet in her hands, he shuts up. Well, Maka supposes that makes some sort of sense; she'd always thought it was just his favorite accessory, not unlike the way she always wears her mother's wedding ring, but it's clear now that it's a little more important to him than just for the sake of fashion.

She can't blink. Every time she closes her eyes she can still see him, his fleeing back, bones splintering, spine elongated to an inhuman length.

Black*Star doesn't say anything for a while. His music doesn't even fall on her radar anymore. It's like she's in a dream she can't wake up from. Everything she's known as real has been effectively turned upside down so many times in the past few months, and this- this is just the icing on the cake.

Maybe it's a joke. Maybe this whole thing is just one big joke and the universe is  _fucking_ with her now. Soul's secretly fantastic at quick changes and he's just hiding at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her to rush after him like she always does and then he'll try to catch her by surprise and sweep her off her feet. Spin her around, even.

…But it's not a joke. He's upset with her. Scared of her. And… and he doesn't even like her that much anyway. Why would he hold her like some sort of boyfriend eagerly awaiting his partner? They're not together. They've never been together. They've just… been friends, of sorts? She thinks?

At least she'd thought they were friends. Maybe, for a moment there, she'd thought they'd been closer.

Maka swallows.

"... He didn't tell you, did he." It's not a question. Maka doesn't pretend like she's going to answer anyway and Star doesn't wait for her resulting shrug. "Christ. And he left the bracelet, too."

The  _bracelet._  How was she supposed to know it held such significance? It's just a string of black and red beads. The damn thing looks like it's straight out of Hot Topic! And okay, it looks well loved, and certainly looks worn, but that doesn't mean anything in the grand scheme of things. Soul is effectively  _homeless._  Most of the rips in his jeans probably weren't even there when he purchased them heaven knows how long ago.

She could barf. "He needs this to go back to normal, doesn't he?"

"That's kind of Soul's normal," Black*Star admits, slapping a heavy hand onto her shoulder. If Maka was feeling more like herself, she'd slap him away and demand more answers, but it's still so much to take in, the monstrous shape of Soul's fleeing back, and she's not really sure she's not going to get sick this time. "The cat's… different."

"Different," she says, blankly.

"The bracelet lets the dude maintain a human form." Black*Star pats her shoulder, then, and swings around to take a seat on the arm of his couch. He slouches, looking up at her, eyes squinting from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. "It's been a long time since I've seen him without it, though. Soul's a lazy bag of bones but he's usually really good about keeping other hands off of his bling."

It's not bling at all. It's not fancy, not glittering or gold. It's something so normal, so disturbingly mundane. How can a single string of painted beads hold Soul's humanity?

"... Where will he go now?"

Black*Star snorts and shakes his head. "Hell if I know. He'll never change back if he doesn't have that bracelet, but there's no way in hell he'll come back here if he knows you have it. He's probably too big of a pussy to face you."

She's too drained to even scold him. "To face me?"

Star laughs, now, but it's got nothing behind it. Like he's only going through the motions of his boisterous energy without really committing to it.

"He likes you, stupid." He says it so easily, so simply. "Bro probably thought he could play it off like he wasn't all demonic and shit if he never told you about it, you know? 'Sides. He's so fucking dense he didn't think you'd ever care enough to find out. Dude probably thinks you have the hots for Kid or something."

Something in her stomach twists, tight and hot. It's stifling, whatever it is, and for a moment, Maka can only stare, beads clutched to her chest as the twisting knots itself there, uncomfortably so. "The hots for  _Kid,_ " she splutters. "Why would he think that?"

"Uuuuuuh, cuz you spend all your time with him?" He's got one brow arched at her and Maka wants to punch that stupid know-it-all look off of his face. "You're just as dense as he is, girl."

Irrelevant! All irrelevant. Besides. "He likes me?"

"I am not going to sit here and play love guru. I have better things to do. Bigger weights to lift." He stands, then, and plants his hands on her shoulders once more. Black*Star looks her right in the eye and shakes her, not so gently. "Look. Soul's my best bro, but I'm not going to fight this fight for him. The cat is still the cat in the end. All you need to know is that whatever you saw before he rushed outta here is what his true form is, okay? That's what you're dealing with."

What she's dealing with. For someone who apparently loves his best friend, it's such a clinical way to explain it. Even beneath those grotesque ridges of his spine still resides a heart. A soul, even. The same Soul who'd looked at her with understanding eyes and offered her companionship, even when he didn't exactly know what that meant.

The knots in her stomach lace together, now. She thinks she might be crying as she shoves her way out of Black*Star's grasp and begins rushing down the stairs and after her stray  _again_. Probably crying, she realizes as she scrubs at her face - but it's raining again and it doesn't matter if she is, anyway. Who's going to tell?

.

It starts to get dark at 7:30.

Staying out late at night was such a big no-no in Mama's books. Curfew was always sunset, and she'd stand waiting on the front porch, expectantly watching her daughter climb up the steps and set her school bag on the kitchen table, ready to do homework.

So much has changed in such a short amount of time. She doesn't really have a curfew anymore, she thinks, tugging her damp hood further down her forehead. There's someone waiting up for her at home but it's not a parental figure - it's  _Kid,_  and he's probably worried sick, pacing the kitchen and staring at his phone. But this is her life now. Pretty-eyed boys waiting up for her and running around in the mid-October rain looking for her cat boy.

Cats have a reputation for hating water, too. He's probably miserable.

… Well. He's probably miserable for more reasons than just that.

She's been doing this for an hour now and Maka feels no closer to finding him than she had when she'd started. It's not like she has any idea where to start looking, either; Soul is a creature of habit, even when he doesn't really have any one specific place to call home and lurks around the same four places on a day to day basis. He spends his days at school, his nights on her roof or in her room, and on the days when she goes to work at night, he either waits up to walk her home or loiters around local music shops.

He can't expect to hide from her in her own bedroom, so that option is out. Soul never goes to school of his own accord, and there's no real reason for him to be hanging out at her ice cream parlor when she's not around - Mifune would've definitely kicked him out by now for taking up space without buying anything - and she's checked every last music shop on this side of town twice, now. She's out of options and ideas.

Maka groans and rubs her face. If she stays out in the rain much longer she's definitely going to catch a cold.

She feels soaked to the bone. Like a drowned rat. The last time she'd felt this way was during her tent days, on a particularly bad rainstorm. The fabric of her tent had barely held up, and Maka had frantically rushed out of her makeshift home to collect her laundry from the clothesline before everything had gotten too drenched.

It seems like forever ago. Another lifetime. Realistically, it's only been a few months. She'd been homeless once, too.

… Hm.

.

It takes some searching, but Maka's little slice of forest is right where she remembers it.

Somehow, her tent still stands, despite everything. Come rain, come shine, come Maka literally not being around to drive the pegs in the ground down again, there it stands, another ghost of her past. Another life Maka had once lived, not too long ago.

She remembers that girl still. Headstrong, determined. Prepared to do whatever it took to get through high school in one piece and undiscovered by the adultier adults around her. What a different life it'd been, without running water, or a solid place to call home. She'd had to do homework by flashlight - or candle light, on some days, when she'd forgotten to budget a restock of double A batteries.

There's no lack of water now, though. It's pouring rain, and Maka squints into the clearing; it's different, out here in the woods without streetlight to at least partially illuminate the way for her. Out here in the trees there is only nature's lighting to clear the way for her, and she supposes she should consider herself lucky, since it is a full moon out tonight. It could be worse. It could be overcast.

But there's really nothing lucky about this. Really, the volumes of creepy that it speaks to are more noteworthy than whatever bullcrap luck she's supposed to believe in; it's a full moon and pouring rain, and apparently there is more to Soul than human and tiny fuzzy kitten. Apparently there's a beast hiding within him somewhere, cursed and managed only by some edgy goth jewelry she'd thought was just aesthetic, and god dammit Liz, her life is totally Twilight now. He's some sort of  _werecat_.

Not the time. Maka shakes her head and tries to scrub the rain from her eyes.

"Soul?"

It's stupid, for her to have come here expecting to find him. How could he have known where she'd been camping? He had never found her there; no, it'd been Kid and Stein to stumble upon her shabby little makeshift campsite. It's  _stupid_ , but there'd been a hope, no matter how inconsequential in her, that Soul would've been able to find some sort of comfort in this place, too. Hoped, too, that maybe the place that'd once shielded her from her own tumultuous reality could've protected him, too. If even for a moment.

It's too much faith to place into one campsite. It wasn't like she'd ever been happy here either. She'd cried herself to sleep every other night, wondering why the world hadn't taken her, too. Wondering why Mama had to go and leave her all on her own. She wasn't ready to be alone yet.

She's still not ready to be alone yet. Maka tugs the zipper of her hoodie up past her nose.

There's groaning, somewhere out there. Then sniffling. Squinting, Maka takes several squishy steps through the mud, branches snapping beneath the weight of her boots. Whatever it is, it doesn't sound human, and even though she's out in the woods at night and really shouldn't be approaching inhuman things by herself, there's still a chance it could be Soul.

And, well. Maybe she's not so afraid of things that go bump in the night, anyway. Not when the things that go bump in the night have eyes like Soul's.

"Soul," she breathes again, approaching the writhing, exhausted mass of limbs.

He's lanky.

Lankier than usual. Unnecessarily so. With long, dark red limbs, not quite furry but still not quite smooth. His appendages have too many bones, too many bendy spots, and when he raises his head to meet her eyes she realizes he has horns, too. Horns, sitting atop a rather bulbous head, ears jagged and eyes large and dark. And- oh, his teeth. What had been a charming feature before seems carnivorous, now, fully predatorial, and he grits them at her in full, blindingly white and too large for his head. His mouth splits his dark face cheek to cheek, and Maka gasps despite herself.

Soul's sniffling becomes a howl. "GO AWAY."

"No," she gasps again, taking a step forward despite the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh. God, he doesn't look like he's in any pain or that he's bleeding anywhere, but in this form Maka's not sure what gushing blood would look like, anyway. Does the blood that runs through his veins match the color of his skin? Or does he bleed black, too, the same way the color of his eyes have been painted over by soot? "No, Soul, please-"

The rain always has softened him. It's his feline instincts, she thinks, that make him so lethargic in the rain. Strips him of his fighting spirit. He's napped in her lap so many times during rainstorms, whether cat or human, head in her lap while she watched reruns of Family Feud and Jeopardy. It does its work now, too, as he can't seem to find it in himself to run from her again. He bears his teeth at her in some sort of warning, perhaps, but she's not afraid of monsters anymore. Not if the monsters never intend to hurt her.

He howls, again, and it's such a mournful sound. He scuttles, trying to brace himself to flee again, but it's difficult to find the footing to do so in the mud, and so he sloshes around a bit, snarling, sounding a bit like he's sobbing, too.

"I'm sorry," she blurts, and oh, it's raining on her face, too, even though she's wearing a hood. Funny how that happens. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you, that's so against our rules-"

"I don't live with you," he says, crooning. He might inhabit a body she doesn't recognize but his voice still speaks to her heart, and that tightness in her threatens to tear her apart. It takes a second for her to collect her breath, and Maka tells herself it's because of the way the wind cuts through her and not at all because there's something haunting about Soul's voice. "Go away! Stop looking at me!"

He's meant to be ferocious, probably. An eyesore. His flesh ripples as he moves, and it's fully disgusting. Maka tries not to stare but it's impossible not to.

" _STOP."_

"I brought your bracelet," she says. "I thought- It's yours, isn't it? I don't want to keep things that don't belong to me. I already have Mama's ring and that's enough."

It's not the first time Soul's hissed at her. It is, however, the first time such a hiss has had the power to forcefully knock her back.

The ground isn't hard beneath her like she'd expected it to be. Well, it's been pouring out for hours; when Maka's ass hits the ground all she does is splash about, landing padded by the sogginess that surrounds her. It only makes sense that she wouldn't get hurt on the way down. What really ends up hurting her is the look Soul fits her with after.

He's not even angry with her. He's still just scared. She can see it there, even in the darkness of his eyes, even when there's no light there. It's clear, in the way the corners of his razor-sharp mouth dips, too. Clear in the way he watches her, raindrops streaming down his face.

Left out in the rain to die. All alone. Maka wipes the mud from her face and crawls toward him.

"I don't want that  _fucking_ bracelet," he admits, and there's something tired and broken in his voice. Something that only serves to sever her heart that little bit more. "I'm so tired of hiding behind that goddamn bracelet, you know what. This is who I fucking am, Maka! So deal with it!"

She takes a deep, trembling breath. Oh. Rotting flesh, everywhere. The stench of it is all up in her lungs, suffocating her. Coughing, she crumbles, for a moment, clasping a dirtied hand to her mouth.

"This is what I  _smell like,_ " he hisses.

He smells like death. Maka can't help it, gagging,  _sobbing_ , lilting toward the ground like a weeping willow. It's disgusting, the way he smells. Gruesome. The way she can't keep the bile down breaks her down, and Maka sobs into her hands, hot tears blurring together with the vomit and the downpour above.

 _(Stronger, she should be_ stronger  _than this.)_

He scuttles, again, attempting to gain traction. His hind legs find it and he stands, towering, and Maka looks up to him, bent at his feet like some sort of snivelling child. "This is why they're going to lock me away, so take your stupid justice and go stuff it somewhere else. Do you get it yet? I bring agony. I'm abominable."

She spits, trembling, still. Finds it in her to finally look up at him and his limbs shake beneath the weight of her stare. "Not  _abominable._ "

"You just got sick, you stupid-"

"No, you listen! You stupid martyr, thinking you can just put words into my mouth, like I'd believe them or something." He should know that she's more stubborn than that. Should know that her sense of justice runs deeper than something shallow like  _just wanting to do the right thing_. "I'm not leaving until you come home with me."

"I don't have a home!" he roars, scrambling, and it's an accident when he lashes out and swipes at her, but Maka takes the chance to latch herself onto his arm instead. "Let go of me!"

Stupid boy. He's hers, now. Doesn't he understand that? Maka has so little left to call her own, in this world. A tent, left pitched alone in the woods. A borrowed bedroom, borrowed home. A heart that won't stop beating, despite the  _beating_ it's taken.

He means something to her now. Holds a weight in her life. Rises with her like the sun and pouts when she tries to stick her finger in his mouth when he kitty yawns. Puts up with her moods and temper.

Watches her cry and accepts her pain without second thought.

Friendship is a two-way street. Maka holds tighter and buries her face into the skin of his front leg, fully bawling now.

"You're supposed to be afraid of me," he says, and oh, he's wailing again. "Everyone's afraid of me. Why wouldn't you be afraid of me, I look-"

Of course she's afraid of him. How can she not be? She doesn't recognize this form, these claws, this odor. It isn't either of the versions of Soul she knows and loves, despite their flaws. He holds enough power in those mangled legs to snap her spine in half and hang her out to dry. It's natural to be afraid.

But courage has never been about being fearless. Real bravery comes from the courage to fight through that fear, and Maka clutches his arm to her, crawling, scrambling, feeling just as monstrous as he looks, holding him close. She can't do this to him, in his human form, in the form he apparently favors. Can't hold him to her heart and let him feel the rhythm of her heartbeat when his darkness becomes too much to bear and his eyes go dark and clouded, and in some sort of twisted way it's nice, to be able to do so.

 _Nice_  to feel him pressed up against her without fear of his curse touch-blocking them.

"I'm afraid," she admits, and even as the smell of him surrounds her, Maka won't allow herself the weakness of retching again. "I'm afraid all of the time, Soul, and not just of you."

He can't shake her off. Soul seems to hesitate for a moment and then settles back, something within him rumbling. "You're so  _weird_ -"

She's not. She just can't fathom a life anymore without him in it. She likes this life she lives, now, more than she'd ever anticipated. Maka likes waking up in the morning to his boots dangling down over her window, likes sharing breakfast with him and Kid, likes walking to school with the two of them. It's nice not to feel so alone in this big world. A little less scary, too, to have companionship.

"I want you to come home," she admits again, leaning back to get a good look at him. His eyes are deep and endless, practically black holes, but that carnivorous, dangerous warning of a grimace has dropped. "Please."

Still, she can feel the rumbling in him. It vibrates through her fingers, still latched on tight. "... I don't have a home."

"You do." Courage, she thinks, rising onto wobbling knees, shaking legs, not unlike a newborn deer. "You have a home with me."

Soul practically gawks at her. Her admittance catches up with her and then she's blushing like a fool, still grasping at what must've once been his shoulders. As long as he's staying put, though, she can't really fault herself for it. Can't fault herself for telling the truth, either. Mama always said that honesty was the best policy.

"If you want it, I mean."

Somehow, he manages to look flustered while not having a human expression. "I mean-"

He doesn't say no. Maka tries to pay the butterflies in her stomach no attention, and she doesn't allow much thought into the way that tightness that once clenched in her gut has now given away to sudden surge of warmth. "There's always a place for you," she says, trudging on, standing taller. Her hands find his jaw, the jagged edges there, and cradles him in her hands. "No matter what Medusa or anyone else says, okay? There's a place for you here with me."

His breath is hot on her face. "Maka."

"I  _like_ our little family," she confesses, ears burning, face drenched. It's big and terrifying, but she finds the courage there in Soul's eyes, deep and bottomless but still so his, no matter the shape or form. "I like spending everyday with you and Kid and- and even Stein, so-"

So.  _So._

She yanks and he falls toward her, and his skin is ice-cold against her forehead, but he melts beneath her touch. It's like the fight in his bones give way, and he lets her man handle him like this, holding him to her. It's a forehead touch and nothing more. Not particularly romantic or anything, but it still feel so personal, so blatantly intimate, and Maka still squeezes her eyes shut anyway.

It's warm. All around her, now, it's warm, and when she opens her eyes, his eyeliner-smeared face meets hers.

He has freckles, she notes with misplaced delight. So many freckles, like tiny, secret constellations along his nose, over the height of his pretty cheekbones.

Cute, even when his hair is matted down to his face, like some sort of drowned cat.

"Soul," she says, nearly choking on his name. "Soul, you're-"

It's warmer with his arms around her. There's a brief, heart-racing moment when his arms circle around her that she realizes he's holding her, and it's such an exciting first-time that she nearly leaps forward, far too eager to be swallowed in his embrace. Maka says to hell with feeling embarrassed for her feelings and wraps her arms around him, too, and when they topple back into the mud together, she's left cradling a tiny stained kitty to her chest.

.

For a while, it's silent.

The beaded bracelet jingles in her pocket as she walks. She's afraid to bring it out, because that'll involve talking about it, and for the time being Maka likes their little slice of the world. It's comfortable, carrying him out of the clearing, even if they're both soaked to the bone and it's still raining. It's comfortable, holding him in her arms, because she knows he's safe, there. For a little while, nothing can hurt him.

He's so small in this form. Small and  _harmless_. It's weird to think about. He holds so many different shapes, so many different versions. This Soul is the very same Soul that'd hugged her so dearly, the same Soul that'd hidden himself away in the woods, afraid of whatever judgement she might pass upon him.

 _Stupid,_  she thinks fondly.

.

Soul is actually being quiet because he's asleep.

Well, what else can she expect; the rain makes him so lethargic, and she's caught him napping in cat form in so many odd places around the house that it isn't even funny. Maka tells herself not to be disappointed that they weren't having some sort of silent bonding moment and instead cradles his little head to her chest instead, hoping to lull him into some deeper sleep with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

Usually, when he naps around the house, he's got his headphones jammed in his ears. A heartbeat will just have to make do.

The walk is long, but Maka doesn't mind it much. The silence gives her time to really think. It's been such a hectic day - hectic few days, really - that to have a bit of time to herself is welcomed. The rain is nice white noise, and she loses herself in thought, cradling her boy to her chest. It feels right, to have him so close, but still, she can't help but miss what it'd been like to have him reach for her, too. She's never felt that before, not with him. On every occasion that he's bared his whiskers for her it'd been her doing. He's never held her like that before.

He's never really had the chance to. For obvious reasons. Kitty reasons. And don't get her wrong, it's nice, cradling him to her chest like this. It makes her feel big and important, having him depend on her like this, for Soul to allow himself to be so vulnerable in her presence.

Still. It'd been  _warm_  in his arms, in the brief moment she'd been allowed to bask in it before the world had shifted around her. Almost as warm as the way her face feels right now.

Soul must agree, even subconsciously. Maka looks down, surprised to find him literally purring in her arms, like some sort of obnoxiously adorable kitten. God. Maybe he is. She should tell him sometime that he is. He'd really hate that. March around like he's big and tough or something and then inevitably pout at her and flop down on the couch until she sits next to him and runs her fingers through his hair.

Yeah, no. It's warmer on her face than it'd been in his arms. She needs to cool it.

"You're a real handful, you know that," she says to him, even as he naps in her arms, curling closer to her chest. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Black*Star gave you pointers on how to get closer to some boobs."

Even as she chides, it's still frustratingly affectionate of her. Like no matter what she does, she always ends up thinking of him fondly, or remembering something about him, or smiling, despite herself, as he yawns and nestles himself close to her heart.

Maybe she's getting sick after all. Maybe the rain's really getting to her.

Ah, well. They're still living on borrowed time, but for now, she doesn't have to worry about it. For now, she can just carry him home and deal with the damage there when they get there. For now, she won't even worry about trailing her muddy boots into the house, or the surefire blow out that's bound to happen the moment Maka brings the cat home and Kid gives them both a stern talking-to for worrying him sick.

The clouds part as the rain slowly comes to an end. Around her, everything lightens up, street lamps humming softly as they glow yellow. Her boots leave murky footprints on the sidewalk.

For now, she won't worry about anyone locking Soul away. They'll have to take him from her cold, dead hands anyway. She'll fight tooth and nail for his chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someday: a sequel


End file.
